


to follow all the paths you choose

by littlelocaldreamer



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: 2009-2013 timeline, Angst, Barebacking, Chicago Blackhawks, Drunken Confessions, Fluid Sexuality, Getting Together, Internalized Homophobia, Jonathan POV, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2019-10-21
Packaged: 2020-12-27 09:16:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21116363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlelocaldreamer/pseuds/littlelocaldreamer
Summary: He should stop this before they cross a line they can’t come back from.





	to follow all the paths you choose

**Author's Note:**

> happy 19-20 hockey season! FULL disclosure i wrote this entire thing on my phone. any mistakes are my own. title by yumi zouma. this is an ode to jonathan toews.

When Jonny was in the first grade, he developed a crush on the new girl in town. Her name was JC and she had curly brown hair, tan freckles on her cheeks, and bright blue eyes.

She laughed at his jokes and let him play with her curls and towards the end of the school year even allowed him to hold her tiny hand on the bus. 

Jonny’s cheeks hurt from smiling so much. 

Then his dad got a new job and suddenly they had to move across town and into a new district and when Jonny told JC they both cried until their moms gently separated them and took them out for snow-cones. 

Jonny was crushed for weeks afterward. 

Then in the third grade, he met Alex. 

Alex had blonde hair and green eyes, with the best smile Jonny’d ever seen. They played soccer together after school and helped Alex’s mom make cookies and nachos and feed the dog.

Jonny didn’t even care that Alex was a boy. All he knew is that whatever he felt for Alex, he’d only felt once before— with JC. 

Unfortunately, the older he got, the less time he had for crushes. Hockey became his third love—his only love—for years. 

Until he met T.J. Oshie. 

Jonny had never had a friend like T.J. before. Someone who believed in his hockey so faithfully while never forgetting to remind him to let loose and have fun every now and then. Jonny went wild with him. 

T.J. was his first kiss. They were wasted in a bathroom while bad beats boomed outside in the backyard. Jonny was eager and desperate and didn’t know how to slow down. 

“Have you ever done this before?” T.J. gasped, breaking away. 

Jonny shook his head, heart racing.

T.J. grinned like a shark out for blood. “Let me show you.”

TJ showed Jonny lots of things. And Jonny had a hard time separating from him when he entered the league. He didn’t have much to distract him. 

Then came Patrick Kane.

Before the Hawks he’d known the name, seen the kid before plenty of times. He loved to watch him skate but hated to admit it. Patrick was good and he knew it. Moves and techniques that took years for Jonny to practice Patrick seemed to get instantly. 

He also had somewhat of a reputation. 

Word on the street was that Patrick liked to drink— a lot. 

And his family always seemed to be around, especially his dad. 

They’d both made it to the NHL sure, but Jonny felt like he was the only one taking it seriously, and that bothered him. 

Rooming together only served to make it worse. 

(+)

They’re both inconsolable. Jonny’s lost track of how long they’ve been fighting. The room’s a ransacked mess. Nothing to be found—not the remote, not their cool down gear, the necklace Patrick’s grandfather gave him.

Patrick’s so red in the face he looks sunburnt while Jonny’s chest heaves like he’s just finished a shift. The back of his neck is on fire.

“You’re a fucking control freak loser,” Patrick nearly shouts, “just because you don’t know how to have fun ever doesn’t mean you have to take me down with you!”

And that strikes a nerve with Jonny, Mr. Why So Serious his entire fucking life—and something inside him snaps. It shouldn’t hurt so bad—but it hits different coming from Patrick. 

Everything seems to since they started playing together rather than apart.

“Fuck you, at least I didn’t choke out some cab driver,” he spits, crazed and delirious with anger. 

It’s a low blow but Jonny convinces himself in this moment that Patrick deserves it.

Patrick shakes his head, cool and indifferent. “And to think I thought we’d be friends. You’re the worst, Toews. Some captain you’ll be.”

And Jonny— he loses it.

He reaches for the room phone, no coherent thought in his head except to hurt— and hurls it in the general direction of Patrick’s head. 

For a brief second it looks like it’s actually going to hit him but Patrick dodges it in the last second, body stealth and quick. It slams into a lamp instead, shattering it. 

The sound is deafening, causing Jonny to flinch. 

Patrick doesn’t look much better, staring at the pieces on the floor. 

Jonny takes a deep breath, heart pounding. “Patrick, I—“

And all the anger disappears from Patrick’s face, replaced with something resembling betrayal. 

“Shit—I’m sorry,” Jonny whispers, thoughts jumbled, remembering how Patrick drunkenly confided in him once how he hated violence, had been pushed around his entire life based solely on his size. How people manipulated him that way, how the ice was the only place he ever truly felt safe. 

“Kaner, I lost control. It—it was an accident.” It falls flat, sounding weak to his own ears.

Patrick doesn’t even look at him as he leaves the room, slamming the door loud enough to wake their teammates if the lamp explosion didn’t already. 

Jonny remains frozen, arms hanging limp at his sides. He knows he can’t follow Patrick, knows he won’t want to talk—not right now. Maybe not for awhile.

It’s not that late, still before curfew. 

That’s what they’d been fighting about—getting to sleep. Jonny needs plenty of rest in order to properly function the next day. Patrick doesn’t need as much—but Jonny thinks that’s bullshit. He thinks, for being the oldest of 4, Patrick sometimes behaves like an only child; clearly used to getting his way.

“It’s cause I’m the only boy,” he said awhile back, cocky smirk aimed in Jonny’s direction, “never had to compromise.”

“Well, you do now,” Jonny snapped, shuttling off the bathroom light and climbing into bed. 

The same situation essentially occurred tonight, but they were coming off a painful 3-0 loss against the Wild, so tensions were already running high. 

“Fuck,” Jonny sighs, dropping down on his bed and falling onto his back. He wonders if maybe he should go after Patrick, or at least try to call him. But when he elbows up and glances around the room, he notes that Patrick’s cell is on the nightstand. 

“Great,” he mutters, squeezing his eyes shut. His second season as captain and he still can’t even properly communicate with his own roommate. 

It’s not a good look.

(+)

After curfew passes and Patrick has yet to come back, Jonny begins to worry. He briefly contemplates calling Q but he doesn’t want to get Patrick in trouble.

Not when his absence is Jonny’s fault.

He’s just about to throw on his tennis shoes and go looking when someone stumbles into the door, banging loudly against it.

Jonny gets up and rushes over, opening it right away.

He tries to keep the anger out of his voice when he asks, “Where were you?”

Patrick roughly shoulders past him, not answering, and it only takes a couple of seconds for Jonny to realize how fucked up Pat truly is. 

He reeks of liquor, though where he got it—Jonny has no idea. 

He watches as Patrick kicks off his shoes, stumbling slightly as he leans into a wall. 

Jonny goes to him, arms outstretched, ready to catch him if he loses his balance completely.

Patrick’s head snaps up, eyes wide and furious.

“Get away from me,” he snarls, gaze losing focus. 

He shakes his head viscously. He can barely stand.

“Patrick,” Jonny murmurs, taking a step back but still remaining close, “please—Iet me help.”

Patrick glares at him, breathing heavily. He closes his eyes. 

Jonny takes another step forward. “Patrick.” 

And he deflates like a balloon, pushing a shoulder into the wall and slumping down along it until he can hide his flushed face in his knees. 

He curls into a ball, muttering, “No.”

And Jonny—something breaks in him at the word. 

He slumps down to the ground, too. 

Patrick looks so small like this. 

He opens his mouth then closes it, feeling horrible and defeated.

He hates that Patrick went and got drunk. Hates it even more that he was the reason for it. 

Jonny knows Patrick’s history with alcohol is short but intense. He knows Patrick can’t handle or stomach it most times.

He also knows Patrick uses it to cope. When things get rough. 

It makes Jonny nervous. 

He worries about Patrick’s conditioning, for one thing. The fact that they’re underage, for another. And overall, he just— worries. 

They were both born in 1988 but Jonny’s older, if only by a little. There’s a sense of responsibly he feels for Patrick. A sort of protectiveness. 

He can’t explain why. 

He moves forward on his knees, slow and prepared to fall back. 

“Pat, hey,” he tries, cautious and wary, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to lose control.”

Patrick glances up at him, teary and tired. He sniffs, brushing his cheek against his arm. “Whatever, Jon. Just leave me alone.”

There’s no emotion in his voice. He’s completely shut off. It’s unnerving, leaving Jonny panicking on the floor. 

“Can I—“ he starts, unsure of what to say but needing to say something. “Can I help you to bed?”

They’ve got morning practice but Jonny already resolves to tell Q Patrick’s sick, that he’ll need the day to recover for the game tomorrow night. 

Patrick doesn’t say anything for a moment, just watches the ground. Jonny wonders what he’s thinking, if anything at all. He looks pretty out of it the longer he stares. 

Finally, Patrick simply nods, sniffing again. 

Jonny holds an arm out, breathing a sigh of relief when Patrick takes it. 

They don’t say anything as Jonny leads him to his bed, pulling the covers back so Patrick can stumble in. Jonny’s heart breaks a little. He’s so mad at himself. Patrick’s only been vulnerable with him once or twice. 

He may never open up to him again after this. 

As he tucks the blankets in around Patrick, he promises himself he’ll do better. 

(+)

Patrick makes it to practice the next morning, much to Jonny’s surprise. 

They barely speak to one another, rarely even glancing in the other’s direction.

Q tells them both they worked hard and to keep at it afterwards. It lights Jonny up inside. He feels really good about the team this year, feels even better about his relationship with Patrick on the ice. 

Off the ice, however—

“Kaner,” he calls out once they’ve showered and dressed, heading back to the hotel.

Patrick’s away from the team, striding ahead.

He turns around, looking at Jonny briefly before he continues moving.

Jonny doesn’t know why his heart pounds so hard. He’s apologized before. It’s not difficult for him. Good leaders know you never stop learning. Jonny knows when he’s in the wrong.

But Patrick looks at him like he wants nothing to do with him and Jonny realizes with a sick lurch that he never wants to see that look on him ever again. 

So he pushes through the unexpected anxiety as he catches up to his teammate, waiting until everyone else has cleared off before saying anything. 

“Hey, hold up a second?”

It’s quiet where they are; private. Jonny winces at how loud his voice comes out. 

Patrick shoots him a nasty look a few feet away but moves over to an alcove in the hall—stopping once he reaches it. Jonny counts it as a small victory. 

He keeps a significant amount of distance between them even though it’s difficult. He’s always relied on touch to say what he couldn’t. 

With Patrick though, he can’t do what he’s always done. 

Patrick still hasn’t said anything, just raises his eyebrows with a small curl of his lips.

Right, Jonathan tells himself, take it easy. 

“Hey so,” he begins, low, “I’m really sorry about last night. I was wrong. And I—it won’t happen again.”

Patrick doesn’t respond, gaze shifting from Jonny’s face to over his shoulder. 

Jonny frowns.

“Are you—did you hear me?”

The rest of the team’s long gone and no one’s walked near recently. Jonny’s comfortable enough to take a step forward and reach out— brushing his hand against Patrick’s forearm. A fleeting but soothing tactic his mom used to do for him and David when they were little. 

Patrick glances down at the skin touched like he’s been burned. 

Jonny ignores the pang of hurt in his stomach. The team comes first, hockey comes first— he has to fix this, no matter what. 

Nevermind how distant Patrick looks right now.

“Patrick, please,” he murmurs, stepping further into his space. It might be stupid, maybe a little desperate, but he holds his arm out again. He’ll push the risk. 

He’s unsure what to expect, a hug? A hand gripping his?

Patrick just continues staring at him. Jonny looks around the deserted area. 

His arm twitches, unconscious. 

It’s so uncomfortable. The silence is strange. He wonders if he should back off but he’s not one to walk away from a challenge. 

Jonny will handle this. Even if it kills him. 

He opens his mouth to say something but is graciously derailed by Patrick abruptly leaning into him. 

He looks exhausted, beat up by practicing hungover. 

He shakes his head, closing his eyes momentarily. “Honestly man, I don’t have the energy.”

And Jonny can’t help it, he pulls him into his chest as close as he can. 

Patrick doesn’t try to break away. He only sighs, deep and wounded. 

“We’re good Jon,” he mumbles, shoulders slumping.

Then, before Jonny can truly even absorb his warmth, Patrick’s breaking the hold, walking away alone. 

(+)

Their season picks up after that, moving at a rate so intense that they barely have time to eat, much less fight in the small space of their hotel room. 

Not that they’d have much to fight about. Much to Jonny’s surprise, after their blowout, their relationship only strengthens. He’s not sure if it’s the hockey they play together or the general positive spirit of the team, but he doesn’t take it for granted.

He basks under Patrick’s attention, thrives in his energy. 

He’s so pretty, too. 

His bouncy, blonde curls. His pink, wet lips. His big, eager eyes glancing up at the scoreboard after an assist on goal.

He’s immature, maybe drinks too much. 

But Jonny sees the softer side, too. The side that always puts his sisters first. The side that secretly visits Lurie on the few Sundays they’re home. The side that stays behind on the ice long after everyone has left—skating so elegantly Jonny’s completely entranced watching him from the bench. 

He tries not to but he can’t help himself when he starts to fall. They’re together all the time, open and share space without question—they simultaneously teach and learn from one another. Jonny’s infatuation for Patrick is axiomatic. 

He still gets angry, though. It’s like UND all over again.

T.J. was never going to be with him. Jonny knew all they were doing was releasing stress together, lending a helping hand. It didn’t matter that Jonny was actually bisexual—he was getting his dick touched. Oshie didn’t need to know the details. 

But no matter how often he looked in the mirror and snapped at himself to get it together, it still didn’t stop him from catching feelings. He told T.J. the day he figured it out for certain and they stopped hooking up. They were bros that way. Though the initial sting of rejection never truly disintegrated. Jonny hurt for awhile after it happened. 

So when his heart starts kicking and his face begins blooming with pink around Patrick, he nearly has a panic attack. 

Jonny wants to tell Patrick things he’s never told anyone else. 

This can’t happen. 

Patrick’s straight. And even if he wasn’t- it would never work. The team and their careers have to come first.

But there are moments where Jonny can’t help but wonder. 

They’ve never talked about how Patrick will sometimes sneak into Jonny’s bed in the middle of the night. Or will actually sleep there if he’s too tired to get up once they start watching TV. Or how Patrick will grab Jonny’s hand during turbulence on flights and not let go until after the pilot gives the clear. Or how when Sharpy brought up the Kinsey Scale during a drunken team outing, everyone had an opinion on it besides the two of them. 

Jonny remembers swallowing hard at the words “gay” and “bisexual” being thrown around the table booths, gaze hovering in Patrick’s direction. 

“I just find it odd that there’s not a single gay hockey player in the league,” Sharpy commented sarcastically. “I mean—surely there is, right? He would have flirted with me. How could a man not fall in love with me!?”

Sharpy had the most adorable pout on his face at the words. It had the table hollering. Even Jonny snorted under his breath. 

When he chanced another look in Patrick’s direction, he was gone. 

In their shared room later that night, coming down off maybe too many drinks, Jonny blurted to Patrick, “I’m bi” and waited patiently for his reaction. 

”That’s fine, Jon.” He replied, weird and strange sounding, before ditching him in search of a vending machine. 

So maybe there’s a weird tension. Or whatever.

Jonny represses his crush, keeping his addlepated thoughts at bay and his intentions innocent as he keeps pushing forward.

Despite craving Patrick’s attention near-constantly, it works for an admirable amount of time. Jonny excels in multiple aspects but perhaps the most prominent one would be self-control. He has an iron will. 

He turns his focus from Patrick to hockey. But the two are so intertwined there are days he has to let go and relax a little. They’re simultaneously the best and worst days. 

The worst—because his developing crush is unrequited.

The best—because there will never be a time where Jonathan Toews doesn’t love to watch Patrick Kane out on the ice.

He’s so quick, fluid. It’s terribly difficult to catch him and even keeping up is a trial in strength and endurance.

The way he stick handles and flicks his wrist makes Jonny preen—breath quickly lost as he’ll watch him sink goal after goal against their best keeper like it’s nothing. 

Patrick commands a huge following, too. The fans love him. He’s an incredible athlete. And Jonny is fucked.

But he’s captain for a reason. Most days he easily locks down his emotions and switches to logistics the minute they enter the UC. It helps. And it helps Patrick too.

He’ll probably never admit it but Jonny thinks Patrick secretly loves being told what to do—what to be better at. 

And there will be moments—rare and far between—when Patrick will look at Jonny. Let his eyes linger. Swipe his tongue across his bottom lip. Lower his face just so he can glance up through his curls. 

He’ll look like he can see through Jonny and doesn’t hate what he finds. 

He’ll look like he’s interested. 

But Patrick’s somewhat religious upbringing combined with the NHL operating as an assumed heterosexual organization keep Jonny from getting his hopes up.

So they skate and they eat and they talk and they fight. 

That’s the best. 

Jonny loves when Patrick fights him, when he fights back—on the bench, on the ice, in the locker room. It’s never like it was their first year together. 

It’s better now- more open and honest communication. Patrick makes Jonny a better player. 

“Do it this way, through the side and up center so you’ll avoid the pack,” Patrick’ll suggest.

Or, “Reserve energy for when you’ve gotta get the puck to me-stop fighting. It’s not worth the penalty.”

Or, “Use Sharpy’s backhand in the third, you’re losing too much steam in the second—try it on your own behind the net.”

And his personal favorite, “Shape up Toews, you’re the leader! Act like one.”

Inwardly, Jonny can’t get enough. Even if outwardly he reacts totally different. 

They excel under the scrutiny of the other. 

And as winter begins approaching spring, both bring their A-game to practice and double it in games. 

One morning Jonny stays behind after morning skate, thinking he’s alone out on the ice. 

He’s alright. Simply lost in thought as he glides, burning thighs pushing him back and forth in a hypnotic rhythm around the rink. 

He’s shocked by the sound of the stick slap—pulled so precipitously from his trance that he trips over his skates, falling and landing hard on his ass as a puck sails right past him and into the net. 

He looks up, dizzy and shell shocked—grateful for pads—locking eyes with an all too smug Patrick. 

“Kaner,” he breathes. 

Patrick skates over to him, easy and sure. His skates cover Jonny’s pads with a sheen of ice, only barely missing his face. An effusive hello. 

It’s just them and Jonny’s restless, jitters popping under his skin as they stare at one another. 

Jonny takes off his gloves, sliding his stick aside. He looks up at Patrick, not at all used to him being taller. 

“Tired, Toews?”

Jonny shrugs, rolling his eyes while his mouth hangs open. “Maybe.”

Patrick grins. “Watch me.”

He steals Jonny’s puck, pushing his trim thighs back and forth away from him, keeping the puck tight and precise in his hold. He soars like a bird over the sea—graceful, powerful, in control.

He smoothly skates away from Jonny, floating to the other end of the rink. Jonny falls into the most tranquil state watching him- listening to his skates- touching his own pulse to feel how rapidly it beats. 

Patrick stops far from the goal. Too far. He angles his stick away from the puck, turning back to Jonny. Jonny expects a playful wink—maybe a sordid flash of tongue. 

He doesn’t expect the painfully tender smile. 

He doesn’t know the look he sends back, only knows he’s glad no one else is around to see it. 

Patrick turns back to the net, shooting the puck and burying it in one solid shot. Like he wasn’t even nervous. Like he didn’t even question where it would end up.

Doubt seems to follow Patrick everywhere but out on the ice. 

Out here, Jonny knows his future is bright. 

Patrick turns around, coming back to him.

“Did you like that, Jonny?”

Jonny doesn’t even chirp him for scoring in an empty net on a deserted rink. That kind of behavior is for when others are around to partake. But that’s not the energy now. 

It’s just them. 

“Yeah, Pat. I liked that.”

(+)

Throughout the playoffs the team continues to strengthen and grow together—to the point where they become indomitable. 

When they win the cup for the first time in 49 years, Jonny cries. 

It’s no surprise—broadcasted on national television. But when he does it again—this time in private—Patrick‘s the only witness.

(+)

Jonny can’t remember the name of the bar they’re at. He’s so drunk, stumbling everywhere. He can’t keep his hands to himself and the team knows better by now than to try and stop him. 

Jonny doesn’t touch anyone as much as he touches Patrick though. 

They’re together in a dim, dark booth. For the first time tonight no one else is around them. They probably both need to go home—Jonny especially. He’s a big guy, can handle a lot of liquor—but with the way the room starts to spin, he should probably be horizontal sometime pretty soon.

“Jonny, I’m wasted,” Patrick murmurs into his neck, soft despite the loud celebrations occurring around them. 

Jonny nods, closing his eyes as he leans more into Patrick’s space. “We should go home, eh?”

Patrick mutters something intelligible, curls brushing against Jonny’s chin.

“Look at these sleepy babies,” someone shouts, all affectionate. Jonny drags an eye open, glancing up in the general direction of the voice. He unconsciously tightens his hold around Patrick. 

Sharpy’s standing over them with a smile so wide the skin around his eyes crinkles. He’s breathless and stupid drunk, smirking like he knows something. 

Jonny smiles dopily at him, “We need to get home.”

Sharpy nods, calling for someone and waving them over. 

Patrick nuzzles further into Jonny, turning his back to Sharpy. He’s usually never like this, regardless of alcohol. It warms Jonny up inside. 

There’s a bright flash, probably a teammate taking their photo. But Jonny doesn’t worry. Even though they’re in public he’s with people he trusts, knows the photo won’t show up anywhere he doesn’t want it to. 

He presses his nose to Patrick’s temple, gentle and fond as he whispers, “You want to come home with me, Peeksy?”

Patrick nods, wrapping his arm around Jonny’s middle. Jonny squeezes him tight, hysterically thinking he never wants to let go. 

They’re both messed up. He doesn’t really remember what happens next, only recalls Sharpy getting them both into an SUV and having whoever’s driving them call as soon as they’re dropped off. 

Somehow they stumble up into Jonny’s place, laughing and falling all over each other. Jonny has no idea where this reserved energy is coming from but suddenly the last thing he wants is to go to sleep. 

He’s leaning against his front door, giggling and loopy as he tries to unlock it. Patrick’s got his head pressed against his back, right between his shoulder blades. 

“Jonnyyyyy,” he whines, “unlock it!”

He sounds like a little kid. Jonny playfully pushes back against him, laughing deeply. 

“You’re breaking my concentration, Kaner.” He pushes the key against the doorknob, missing completely. 

Suddenly Patrick’s next to him, not behind, and he’s slipping under Jonny’s arm, shouldering himself in front of him completely and yanking the keys out of his hand.

“Hey,” Jonny pouts, “I was close.”

Patrick laughs, pushing back against him. 

Jonny closes his eyes and tries to reach down into the calmest part of himself. But Patrick wiggles and shoves, wired and buzzing like the ball of energy he is and somehow ends up slotting his ass up against the dip of Jonny’s hips just so and —stays there, pushing back tentatively. 

Jonny’s hands come down to Patrick’s sides as he finally unlocks the door. Neither of them move from the hallway. Jonny knows he needs to say something, break the tension. 

However when he opens his mouth, all that comes out is a gasp. He’s suddenly aware of the fact that he’s growing hard, grinding subconsciously into the unrelenting muscle of Patrick’s cheeks. 

Patrick smacks a hand against Jonny’s front door loudly, letting out a soft groan. 

“Jon, what’re you—s’happening?”

Jonny grips him harder, doesn’t want to answer. Instead he grunts, “Inside.”

They stumble through the threshold and Jonny’s instincts kick in. He pushes Patrick up against the wall, turning and locking the door behind him. 

Muscle memory guides him, pulling him down to the floor. He remembers the first time he did this to TJ, wasted and sloppy on some shitty futon in the basement during some trashy party. 

“Jon,” Patrick exhales shakily, moving his hands down to cup his head as John works his pants open, revealing his dick.

It’s gorgeous—and even though Jonny’s mostly restrained himself from thinking about it, he knew it would be. It’s long and pink, already shiny at the head. 

He takes it down his mouth near instantly, bold from the liquor and the adrenaline of the night. 

Patrick cries out, hands tightening in Jonny’s hair as Jonny allows him to push in as deep as he can. 

“Fuck. Jonny—when—?”

Jonny slurps loudly around the head, bringing a hand to softly cup at his balls.

He hums around him, not pulling off to answer. Patrick doesn’t need to know anything about his past. 

Patrick’s fingers keep curling and opening in his hair, like he can’t decide what to do. 

Jonny pulls off, collecting more drool in the hollow of his cheeks as he stares up at Pat—pretty pink mouth open in shock. 

“Let me,” Jonny says, and goes back down on him. 

This time there’s no hesitancy in Patrick’s hands. He clutches at Jonny like he’s desperate for him. And in return, Jonny’s hands find their to Patrick’s ass, grabbing on hard enough his nails dig into his skin. 

Jonny bobs up and down, fluttering his tongue particularly around the head when he finds out it makes Patrick whine. 

He’s not sure how long he sucks, just knows that he’s hard enough his sight begins losing focus and Patrick begins thrusting for real—like he’s going to come down his throat.

“Shit,” Patrick breathes, legs shaking, “I’m so deep—“

There’s a tremor in his voice, one Jonny wants to explore later, but not now. Not in his hallway where there’s no light and his knees ache. 

He pulls back, taking a deep heaving breath as he glances up from under his lashes. He’s not much in that department, not like Patrick, with his flirty smirk, but it gets Patrick moving.

He yanks Jonny up, connecting their mouths immediately. Jonny groans when their hips align, sucking on Patrick’s tongue to keep himself from coming in his pants. 

He needs Patrick under him and in his bed as soon as possible. He breaks away and grabs his hand, not looking back as they climb the stairs. 

“Jonny?” Patrick asks, sounding curious and unsure. 

Jonny squeezes his hand in response. 

Once they enter his bedroom it’s like nothing exists outside of it. Complete and total hunger overtakes him and he no longer has any control. He pushes Patrick down onto the sheets, only stopping briefly to make sure he’s okay before covering his body completely with his own.

“Can I kiss you again?” He asks, voice steadier than he feels. 

Patrick looks pleased and sleepy, but when he replies he sounds alert. “Go on then.”

Jonny leans down and in, closing his eyes as their lips connect. It’s like the minute they touch Jonny’s heart becomes exposed to some type of livewire lighting him up inside.

It turns filthy quickly, Jonny sliding his tongue inside Patrick’s gorgeous, pink mouth and moaning obscenely when Patrick latches on with his smooth, slick lips.

His body gives in, allowing him to press his hard cock down as he moves his hands under Patrick’s body to grip boldly at the globes of his ass.

Patrick breaks the kiss, panting out his name over and over again in a voice Jonny’s never heard before. 

“We won the fuckin’ cup,” Patrick says, hands coming to Jonny’s face. 

Jonny closes his eyes, leans down and whispers, “Because of you.”

He pulls back, just a little. When he meets Patrick’s eyes, he has the most sincere smile on his face.

Jonny kisses him again. He has to. 

Somewhere along the line their clothes are discarded on Jonny’s floor, tossed away as they grab and hold onto each other with desperation so fierce Jonny’s heart pounds in his throat. 

He can’t stop touching Patrick’s face, boundaries withdrawn completely due to the alcohol coursing through his veins. His hands graze Patrick’s skin like he’s precious, like he has to be protected. 

Patrick looks blissed out under all the attention, allowing Jonny to look and taste his fill.

Jonny will wonder later what that means. 

Jonny’s not a sensitive person. Not really. He knows when to express empathy and the difference between that and sympathy. He has people he cares deeply about. There are things that upset him—not getting enough sleep, his body refusing to cooperate, when he gives advice but it’s not taken—but mostly he stays the charted course.

So he’s not sensitive.

But he is sensual. 

He tunes all of his senses in, wanting to share them with Pat. Touching him, breathing him in, looking into his eyes—when Pat’s voice comes out shaky Jonny turns his head so he can speak directly into Pat’s ear. Murmuring praise and filth within the same breath. When he licks the dried sweat off of Pat’s neck he brings their lips together so Pat can taste it too. 

Their tongues tangle together, lazy and slow. 

They stay that way for ages.

When Pat begins to squirm, Jonny takes action. 

“What do you need?” He pants along Pat’s temple, kitten licking along the edge.

“Something inside—gimme—“

He breaks off, groaning at the slide of Jonny’s cock over his hole. Jonny’s going insane, wild with need. Somehow he finds the lube, Patrick whimpering when Jonny’s fingers fill his hole one at a time, careful to be gentle. 

They’re taking turns alternating between sucking and pressing light kisses on each other’s necks, Jonny content to rub his body along Patrick’s in this way —

“You should fuck me,” Patrick pants, eyes wild, “I—wana feel you like that.”

Jonny feels like he’s been thrown in the deep end. His thoughts escalate, heart reeling untethered in the space between them. He never, not even in his wildest dreams, saw this play coming. 

“Pat,” he murmurs, biting his lip, unsure what to say.

This is moving way too fast. But his cock jerks almost violently and his fingers keep twitching like they’ve been burned. His body is ready, but...

“Patrick,” he says again, helpless and frowning. “Is that what you really want?”

Patrick leans up and licks into his mouth, “I’ve fingered myself—“ he pauses, shivering as Jonny presses against his prostate. “—I liked it. C’mon. Want you.”

Jonny leans down, drunk and disoriented. He presses his lips to Pat’s blindly, needing to focus, trying to ground himself. He hasn’t been to the store in awhile, hasn’t been hooking up for longer. 

So strung out over the man under him. 

“I don’t have a condom,” he confesses against Patrick’s lips, warm breath stuttering in his chest. 

“I’m clean,” Patrick immediately replies, “and I trust you,” he adds quietly.

Something strange flutters inside Jonny’s chest.

This feels massive. All consuming. He should stop this before they cross a line they can’t come back from. 

But as they lock eyes, Patrick’s so eager and open and blue, Jonny knows there’s no going back. 

“Okay,” he murmurs, voice deep and dropping low, “okay, Kaner.”

He swallows every noise Patrick makes, grinning against his mouth every time he lets out a giddy laugh or breathy groan. 

When Jonny moves them, positioning Pat on top, they share a quick, chaste kiss. Jonny can’t grasp any of the thoughts racing through his head, they’re moving too fast. In this span of time all he wants is Patrick, all he knows is this body, those hands, that voice. 

Nothing else really registers. 

“Can’t believe you’d let me,” he confesses quietly against Patrick’s temple, sliding into his warmth.

“Jonny,” Patrick shudders, shuffling closer. He sounds strange, voice breathy. 

A fierce protectiveness washes over him and he grips Patrick as tight as he can.

“I’m here.”

He pushes into Patrick bare, Patrick clinging atop him and hiding his flushed face in the sweaty hollow of Jonny’s throat. Every now and then he’ll release the smallest of sounds; private and fragile in the space between them.

In the back of his mind Jonny knows he’s too fucked up to properly understand what’s happening—the gravity of it all—but he’s never felt more free. 

Under Patrick, he’s never felt better. 

“Baby, baby—Pat—,” he chants, trying to keep the pure adoration out of his tone and failing. Patrick’s hips move in a sensual glide back and forth atop Jonny’s cock—and when he clenches down in the nastiest of motions, Jonny can’t help but groan like he’s in pain. He keeps digging his nails into Jonny’s skin and scratching them down whenever Jonny bumps his prostate, whining like he’s never felt anything so amazing before.

Not even winning the Cup only hours before. 

It goes on endlessly, the two of them working each other up to the edge only to pull back right from the brink. 

“Wanted this forever,” Jonny confesses, filter long abandoned. 

Patrick keens quietly but otherwise doesn’t reply. 

Jonny’s eyes cross more than once. Patrick’s so smooth and warm and wet inside, the coziest cushion for his cock. He can’t believe Patrick is letting him do this, letting him inside like this.

Even in his drunken state Jonny feels scrubbed raw. 

“Patrick,” he breathes, tightening his arms around those broad, strong shoulders. 

“God, you feel—so good,” Patrick slurs, cock leaking copiously against Jonny’s abs and movements getting lazier the closer to completion he gets. 

“That’s it, Peeks, just like that.”

Jonny hates how out of breath he sounds. He wants to hold Patrick down; grab his throat, shove his face into the mattress. 

He wants to hold his hand and kiss his forehead, he wants to wake up to him—next to him—not across the room from him. 

He swallows thickly, mouth drying out. He kisses him, desperate with it. His head pounds with too much champagne but his heart flutters as Patrick smiles against his lips, biting at his bottom one.

“Wana make you come—on my cock—“

Patrick whimpers, lush mouth pressing sipping kisses to his jawline as his hips move-frantic and fast. 

Jonny brings a big hand down, wraps it around Patrick’s cock.

“Your dick,” Jonny whispers into Patrick’s ear, “it’s—god, Pat, it’s perfect.”

“Y-Yeah?”

He sounds almost insecure, not at all cocky and delighted like he usually is when complimented. 

It nearly renders Jonny speechless, but Patrick’s quick, distressed kisses along his throat edge him on. 

“Fuck—it’s big, eh? Would get in me so deep—“

“Oh fuck Jonny, oh—I’m gonna come—“

Liquid shoots up between them, creaming their chests, and Jonny barely has a moment to blink before he’s flipping them over and pulling out, pressing a gentle kiss to Pat’s chin as he strips his cock. 

He comes across Patrick’s cock and his perfect little nipples, ass flexing and knees wobbly even on the flat surface of his bed as he groans.

Patrick has his eyes closed, licking his lips and murmuring Jonny’s name quietly. His hand firmly grips his cock, stroking both of their collective come up and down it. 

Jonny’s own cock twitches repeatedly in his hand, sensitive and spent. They’re both sweaty and disgusting. But Jonny would be lying if he said the view of Patrick covered in his come wasn’t the hottest sight he’s ever seen. 

He’s exhausted and tipsy and wants nothing more than to sleep for days. He has to nest first, though. He needs to feel clean otherwise he’ll wake much earlier and grumpier than anticipated. 

“Jon?”

Patrick’s eyes are still closed. 

“Don’t hate me,” Jonny responds, leaning down and lazily licking at his cheek. 

Patrick blinks up at him, looking young and unsure. Jonny’s heart clenches. 

“Gotta clean up, Peeks.”

Patrick protests weakly but eventually holds his arms put. 

Jonny reaches to collect him, soft and sated, and half carries him into the shower. It takes no time at all to steam the room around them. There’s a bench right underneath the showerhead and Jonny sits down on it, allowing the water to soothe his bruised-sore Cup playoffs body. 

It doesn’t feel real, sitting naked in his shower with Patrick, watching come drip down off him and swirl into the drain. It must be nearing sunrise outside. Jonny’s head hurts so badly, heavy and aching. 

He touches his mouth, hissing at the tenderness of it.

Patrick looks half asleep a few feet away from him. Too far away.

“C’mere,” Jonny says, low.

He slowly slides over, sculpted body never leaving the support of the wall, blue eyes never leaving Jonny’s face.

When he’s close, Jon pulls him in, wrapping his arms around his middle and handling him into his lap. It’s achingly benevolent, how gentle the moment is. How dreamy.

Even if they hadn’t won the cup, Jonny knows this is a night he'll already miss in the morning. 

Patrick’s slick and flushed pink atop his thighs, moaning deep and content as hot water splashes all over them. The moisture floats lightly around the room. Like they're lost in a cloud. 

Patrick wraps his arms around Jonny’s shoulders, closing his eyes and kissing him sleepily all over his face, tongue tracing drops of water. 

“Pat,” Jonny mutters, helpless. 

This—is intimate. It’s intense. And it’s late enough now that they alcohol has surely worked its way out of both of their bodies. 

Jonny noses at Patrick’s neck, biting down and sucking on it contently. He pulls Patrick even closer, knowing he’s coming off needy but unable to help himself. 

Patrick’s neck has significant response signals. Jonny had gripped it hard during a post-game lineup one night and he shivered— even flinched away. 

At Jonny’s quizzical gaze, he shrugged, murmured, “It’s. Uh. Pretty sensitive.”

Jonny takes advantage of the knowledge now, biting and licking at it desperately while Patrick’s groans echo around the walls. 

They can’t go again. They’re both too exhausted, can barely even move their limbs. But Jonny’s still smug and satisfied at the sight of his mark on Patrick’s skin—purple and red and already bruising around the edges.

“Fuck. It’s big.”

“S’okay,” Pat slurs, leaning down to kiss him again, “don’t care.”

Jonny smiles, soft and secret against Patrick’s cheek. 

Patrick scrunches his nose as Jonny presses last kiss against the mark, shuddering in his arms. 

“We won the cup,” Patrick murmurs dreamily, drifting against Jonny’s chest.

Jonny can’t help the weak sob that escapes him. It comes out of nowhere. He's hit a wall of pure fatigue. He's about to collapse. And the fact that he won the cup for Chicago after so long without it...with Patrick...He squeezes his eyes shut. He worked so hard—they worked so hard. It doesn’t feel real. None of this night does. 

“Jonny, are you okay?”

Jonny quickly blinks the tears away, so grateful for the cover of shower water.

“I’m okay, Kaner.”

Patrick hugs him so hard Jonny can’t breathe.

Later, when they drag themselves out of their warm, wet cocoon—Jonny toweling them both off to his contentment—and climb into bed, Jonny falls asleep holding Patrick. 

Nothing, not being drafted, not his 3 shoot out goals in Worlds, not even the cup win tonight—compares to this Patrick-sized glow inside of him. 

He closes his eyes, languid and peaceful.

In his sleep, he dreams of red and black confetti and a blurry figure skating circles around him. 

(+)

He wakes to his alarm blaring obnoxiously, alighting his distress signals. 

“What—?”

His head pounds and his eyes feel the only type of sore that comes with not getting nearly enough sleep. 

He glances at the clock, noting it’s barely past 9. He lets out a small groan. He has to be at the parade celebration in less than an hour. He’s so fucked. 

At least he’ll get to continue drinking. 

He lets out a pathetic moan as he sits up— aching and exhausted all over. 

His bladder urges him to stumble into the bathroom immediately. Once he relieves himself, splashing some cold water on his face and beginning to come back online, he spares a moment to look around his massive bedroom. 

His massive, empty bedroom. 

“Kaner?” He calls out, anxiety already creeping in. 

No one answers. 

He rushes to get ready, throwing on some custom-tailored khaki pants and his jersey. He hopes he doesn’t look as bad as he feels, hopes he looks presentable enough for the people of Chicago. 

His heart hammers incessantly when he gets to the UC. He tries to swallow down the bad taste of abandonment in his mouth but Patrick hadn’t even texted or called post his departure. 

There’s no way he can regret what happened last night—what they did. It was...extreme. It was a lot. But nothing about it felt wrong. 

Jonny doesn’t see things that aren’t there. He’s logic-driven first, emotions taking an expected back seat. Patrick looked at him like everything Jonny felt wasn’t only understood—but returned. 

He gulps, stopping for a brief second to compose himself. 

When he makes it to the team gathering, he spots Patrick instantly. He’s got his signature backwards cap on, this one declaring “2010 Stanley Cup Champions” proudly. Jonny has the same one on, facing forward. 

Sharpy is next to him, hand on his chin and tilting his face away, revealing—

“Toews,” Sharpy shouts, sounding gleeful, “our lil Peekaboo had quite a night last night—check it out!”

And it’s cruel, the first time Jonathan sees Patrick and the evidence of what they did together in front of a bunch of people. Agony pierces his throat. His possessive instincts flare at the sight of the mark on Patrick’s neck. He wants to pull Patrick away from here, from all these people, take him somewhere private and put his nose to his neck—ask why he fucking left—

His heart balloons in his throat. He pushes it down. He’s shocked at how cool and collected he sounds when he murmurs, “She must’ve been a trip, eh?”

Patrick’s eyes meet his and they’re unreadable. Completely void. He’s not the type to flush easily, not like Jon, so there’s literally no physical giveaway if he’s reacting to Jonny’s show of indifference. 

Sharpy traces his thumb over the mark and Patrick pulls away. Jonny’s initial reaction is to shield him, keep him and their mark somewhere private—but when Patrick walks away, leaving the room, Jonny ignores it. 

He’s swarmed by people within 30 seconds anyway, the energy and excitement from the night before bleeding into his internal despair and distracting him for the time-being. 

And the 4 or 5 mimosas help too. 

When he sees Patrick next, he’s pleasantly buzzed. The team’s on their parade float, Duncs and Seabs keeping the cup safe between them as the roar of downtown Chicago lingers in the distance. 

Patrick looks about as drunk as Jonny feels, stumbling against a pillar slightly while he talks to someone from the front office. 

By the time the parade route is in motion and they’re moving, Jonny’s made his way over, sticking close to Patrick without really saying much. 

Patrick does the same. 

They’re talking to everyone but each other and no one even notices—too distracted by the cosmic energy of Chicago and thousands of clarion fans lining the streets to see history being made. 

By the time Jonny makes it home later, wasted and stumbling along his hallway, he allows himself to finally face the overwhelming sadness developing inside of him. 

He barely interacted with Patrick, outside of a few fan opportunities and light, drunken conversations on the float— it was like nothing happened between them. 

Except for when Patrick sensually poured beer into Jonny’s mouth in front of thousands of people—that was a bit of misstep on both their parts that left Jonny aroused and confused. 

He crumbles atop the sheets, wondering where Patrick is. This time last night he was with Jonny. 

He should just go to sleep. He’s so exhausted even his bones hurt. But all he can think about is the night before—kissing Patrick, holding Patrick, Patrick letting him inside—

He gives into the urge to call him. His hand blearily scrambles around his bed, not really gripping onto anything significant. It takes him awhile and he gets so frustrated at one point he shouts “FUCK” at the very top of his lungs. So loud it almost scares him. 

He moves off his bed, lethargic. All he wants is Patrick. He had to pretend all day to be happy for his rando “hookup” the night before while their teammates laughed and looked on with pure glee. 

The worst part is that Patrick looked incredibly bashful about it. Playful. Honestly he looked so good all day. Like the worst type of privileged trash. Jonny wanted to drag him into a bathroom and fuck his brains out. It was terrible. Everything is terrible. 

“I hate my life,” he whines miserably. 

He finally finds his phone though, hidden between the mattress pads, so maybe he’s turning it around. 

The letters are hard to read on the screen—out of focus and shifting—but Patrick is listed on his “favorites” page, right under his mom, dad, and David. So his muscle memory kicks in pretty quick.

The phone rings and rings to no avail and with every redial Jonny gets angrier. He’s so upset with Patrick. For abandoning him, for avoiding him, for making him feel invisible. This is supposed to be one of the greatest times of their lives and it’s being ruined by something Jonny thought Patrick wanted. 

While abrupt and somewhat unbelievable in the moment, it still happened—which means Patrick thought about it. Maybe as much as Jonny did. Or maybe Patrick was just drunk and stupid. Maybe he regrets what happened when he wasn’t in control. 

It wouldn’t be the first time. 

Jonny hasn’t cried in years. For the most part he’s lived an unproblematic life. Even his acknowledgment of liking men wasn’t dramatic. His parents were not only supportive, but interested. 

“What is it about JC you like so much?” His mother asked him with a twinkle in her eye one day after school in the first grade. 

“Her blue eyes,” Jonny said thoughtfully, chewing on an apple slice, “and her curly hair. She’s pretty.”

“Oui?”

Jonny swirled his apple in caramel. A rarity allowed only once a week. “Yep.”

“Mon amour, you know if you think a boy is pretty, that’s okay too?”

“Sure,” Jonny responded with a shrug.

“Très bien alors, I want to know about all of your crushes.”

Jonny giggled and shouted “Gross!”

His mother swatted him playfully with a wash cloth before wiping off his mouth. 

Then, in the 3rd grade, his father commented on Alex after hockey practice one day. 

“You and Alex seem particularly close, eh?”

Jonny remembers tapping his fingers on the car window, staring at the snow clouds gathering over the horizon.

“Yes, I like him,” he replied, matter of fact.

“What do you like about him?”

Jonny bit his lip. “Sometimes he’ll hold my hand.”

His father laughed, light and sweet. “Does someone have a crush?”

Jonny’s cheeks blushed pink, but not in a bad way. More like pleased. 

“Is that—okay? If I do?”

His dad patted his knee gently. “Of course, Jonathan.”

And that was the end of it. His Coming Out. The big Reveal. Afterwards, hockey took both JC and Alex’s places. There were really no more discussions when games had to be played. 

Besides Oshie. 

Who’s straight. So.

However, as he grew up Jonathan realized how lucky he was to be in the position he was in—to have the family he had. He never took their foundational love and easy acceptance for granted. 

He knows it hasn’t been the same for Patrick—setting sexuality aside, his family dynamic is much different from Jon’s. They’re both the oldest child but Patrick’s responsibility far outweighs Jonny’s. His parents, especially his father, rely on Patrick to provide. They raised him to give it his all so he could eventually give it back. 

Jonny cringes at the thought.

So no, he doesn’t cry. Hasn’t really had to. But he does now, as he stares down at the much too bright light of his phone, he loses his grip. And doesn’t move as a tear or two falls down and splashes on the screen. 

(+) 

He falls into a terrible, restless sleep and wakes to relentless pounding at his front door. 

He checks the time and winces: 2:26AM.

“Tazer! Let me in!”

The door handle shakes as Jonny half walks, half jogs towards it, trying admirably not to throw up. 

He knows it’s Kaner, could tell his voice anywhere. He’s still significantly drunk from the day, that’s the only reason he doesn’t ice Patrick out. Doesn’t even question if he should open the door. 

He still glares as he throws the door open, hissing, “Shut the fuck up.”

Patrick pushes past him, holding his phone up. And Jonny’s stomach drops, because he forgot that he maybe might have gone overboard.

“You called me 17 times Jonathan.” He says acidly, swaying a little. “What the fuck? I was with my family. My dad could have seen.”

Shame floods Jonny in seconds, but he’s out of it enough, unguarded enough, to mutter, “I needed to talk to you.”

“You’re smothering me,” Patrick sneers, grimace wedged prominently on his face. 

“Yeah? That how you felt last night, then?”

Patrick looks like he’s been slapped, hands curling into fists at his sides. 

“Talk to me, Kaner.”

Patrick scoffs, kicking harshly at the floor. He’s flushed in the face like he never is. He looks—awful. Red rimmed eyes, wrinkled cargo shorts, a stain of some sort over the Nike logo on his shirt. He doesn’t look okay.

Jonathan wants to kiss him so badly.

He’s prompted enough to ask, “What happened?”

Patrick looks at him, hazy blue eyes briefly wild before he narrows and hardens them. 

“Nothing.”

Jonathan swallows down his protest at the blatant lie. He gulps, taking a deep breath. He feels horrible. He needs to be horizontal as soon as possible. 

“Patrick,” he tries again, “it’s the middle of the night. Why are you here?”

Patrick leans back against the island counter, crossing his forearms. Jonny glances at them, remembers gripping them tight the night before. 

Patrick’s bottom lip wobbles, just barely.

But Jonny saw. 

And though he may struggle to admit it, there will probably never come a time where comforting Patrick won’t be his first priority. 

“Patrick,” he softens his tone, “come here.”

Patrick closes his eyes, leans in on himself, going small. Jonny goes to him first. Can’t stand any more distance between them. 

“Jon—“ and his voice breaks, body crumbling. 

Jonny catches his fall, alarm racing through his veins as he grabs on tight. He can smell the whiskey now, realizes how fucked up Patrick must be. 

There’s sniffling and a few, quiet murmurs. But otherwise nothing loud. He’s not making a scene. Jonny clutches him, fails to hide how badly he needs to hold him. 

“Babe,” he breathes, uncontrolled and pained. 

Patrick shakes his head against his chest, crazy and erratic. “No, no, no.”

Jonny noses at his tangled curls, sneaks a sniff of his pine scented shampoo. Relief surges under his skin. He doesn’t care what state either of them are in as long as Patrick’s solid and safe with him. 

He’s been adrift for hours—going through the motions, the day bereft of any color. 

Energy surges in him now, just from Patrick’s presence. 

“Come to bed with me,” Jonny says, trying not to make it sound like a question. 

Patrick shakes his head again, but his hands come and ease Jonny’s sleep shirt up, grasping at the heated skin underneath. 

Patrick wants to get closer but he doesn’t want to ask. 

Jonny doesn’t make him. He doesn’t say another word, instead taking Patrick’s hand in his own, leading them down the hall to his bedroom. 

“Get undressed,” Jonny says, tone commanding. 

Patrick doesn’t argue, stripping clumsy in a way he never usually is. 

Jonny watches him as he removes his own briefs, almost like a test, daring him to object. 

Patrick doesn’t. 

They climb naked into his bed. Jonny doesn’t know what it means.

His heart is sore.

It’s silent in the room but for the rustle of sheets. Patrick hates sleeping in silence. 

“I have a lot going on,” he admitted to Jonny late one night, during their rookie year. 

“What do you mean?”

Patrick purposefully didn’t look at him as he pointed to his head. “Up here. Need a distraction.”

The next day, Jonny downloaded a fan app for occasions where the AC or heating unit wasn’t loud enough. Neither of them ever directly acknowledged it. 

They didn’t take advantage of it last night but Jonny has an actual box fan now, right next to his bed. 

There’s only one reason why.

He flicks it on and glances across the bed. 

Patrick’s far away, almost to the edge, but Jonny drags him back against his chest, slow and careful. 

Patrick sighs, sorrowful and deep. 

“Last night,” he whispers, cautious and quiet.

Jonny hums, pressing his nose to Patrick’s nape, hoping he can hide how tense his body’s suddenly become. 

“It’s...never been like that before—for me,” Patrick confesses.

Jonny waits for him to elaborate, but he doesn’t. Somehow he knows what Pat means anyway. 

“Me either,” he admits, squeezing Pat’s middle in assurance.

“I’ve never been with a guy before.”

His heart races. “It’s okay, Pat.”

He waits. But Patrick doesn’t offer anything else. 

Jonny’s feeling bold with Patrick facing away. Maybe a little reckless. He can’t help but blurt, “Waking up without you was awful.”

Patrick tilts his head into the mattress. It’s dark in the bedroom, even with adjusted eyes, but the message is clear. He’s hiding. 

Jonny lets him, only allows him because he doesn’t know if Patrick will be here in the morning. He’s just relieved to have him here now. 

They don’t say anything for what feels like a long time. Jonny’s beginning to fade off, head heavy like a bowling ball.

When Patrick finally speaks, he presses his whole body back into Jonny’s, like the touch will soften the blow.

“It can’t—it can’t happen again. Hockey has to come first, Jonny. We’re...teammates.”

He has the decency to sound wounded, at least. Jonny will take that. But he can’t help the breath that escapes him, the pain that grips his heart. It’s like Patrick has peeled back the thin skin of his chest and dug right into it- the rawest part of his self. 

He kisses him on the back of his neck again. Delicate and longing.

He doesn’t argue. He doesn’t say anything. He knows Patrick well enough now to realize by the time he’s made up his mind, it’s too late to change it. The only other person he knows so determined is himself. 

The irony cuts right between his lungs, nestling content in its bitterness. 

Jonny doesn’t stay awake much longer after that, Patrick’s body heat calming him to the point of slumber. 

The next time he wakes, it’s still dark outside with only a hint of sunlight on the horizon. 

Jonny groans when he realizes what woke him. 

Patrick’s grinding heavily against him, between his thighs, whining against Jonny’s neck. 

“Sweetheart—what?” He can’t help the high, breathless endearment, brain still half asleep. 

Patrick kisses at his skin, bites it a little. He sounds desperate when he mutters, “Last time, Jonny. Okay?”

Jonny’s hands slide down, gripping Patrick’s perfect ass in his palms and hauling him in as close as they can be. Their bare cocks brush against each other over and over in a slick, sweaty glide. Jonny would agree to a limb being taken away right now.

“Whatever you want,” he replies, coarse and honest.

Patrick’s nose hints against his jawline, painfully gentle. “Okay, Jon.”

They fuck like that, Patrick on top, Jonny sliding inside bare as Patrick settles in his lap. 

Jonny sucks another dark mark right on top of the one he left only the day previous, cock steadily leaking inside Patrick at the hot, small pants the action draws from him. 

What they’re doing has a twinge of taboo covering it now, a raw taste of illicitness lining the walls of Jon’s mouth.

But try as he might, he can’t find it in himself to feel bad. To feel wrong. Holding Patrick in his arms—it could never. 

“Want you so much,” He admits. It’s a pathetic substitute for what he really wants to say.

“Yeah, Jon. Yeah—okay—“

When Patrick finally connects their lips, Jonny closing in on the edge of his completion, the moment’s so fraught with heat and lust and pain that Jonny actually tears up.

He’s feverish, delirious. Nothing about this moment seems grounded in reality. He’s so hot and sweaty, Patrick whimpering at his shoulder as he rides Jonny’s cock like he’s getting sent off to war. 

He clenches cushy and tight on Jonny every time he angles down. It makes Jonny’s eyes cross more than once. 

“Fuck. Oh fuck, Peeks, please—“

They kiss, sluggish and half awake in their own island bubble on the bed.

They’re rolling together, desperate and seeking. Jonny’s never done drugs but he imagines this is what it feels like— to be so completely removed from yourself yet tuned into every sensation tenfold. He breaks the kiss with a wet, pleading sound. 

“Patrick,” he breathes, holding on, “baby, why—“

Why can’t we do this again? Why do we have to stop?

“Jonny stop,” Patrick whines, kissing at his face with closed eyes.

“Pat, you’re—“

Everything, all of it. 

Patrick closes his mouth over Jon’s, sliding his slick tongue inside for Jonny to suck on and effectively ending the embarrassing rant he was about to venture into. 

“Come inside me,” Patrick whispers when they break apart, “Jonny, do it—“

Jonny bites down on the slick sweat of his neck, hips arching impossibly as Patrick’s tight, merciless walls caress his full, swollen cock. 

He comes like that, blurry and out of his fucking mind with pleasure. He brings Patrick off too, taking his blush pink cock in his big hand and stripping every last drop of cream from his body. 

They’re both shaky and trembling, clinging to each other as the sun slowly rises outside. 

He can barely hear himself think over how hard he’s breathing. 

He’s never had sex like this with anyone. 

He doesn’t know if he will again. 

He falls back asleep with Patrick snug in his arms. 

Though expected, it still hurts when Jonny wakes alone hours later.

He’s a Captain—a leader. He’s built to handle tough losses day in and day out. He can get himself out of trouble, recover from any type of disaster. 

He thought he knew how to bounce back from failure. 

But as he stares at the empty side of his bed—it’s a different type of ache that falls over him.

This is defeat. 

And there’s no victory in sight. 

(+)

Life goes on. 

Jonny returns home to Winnipeg for the summer and Patrick to Buffalo. 

He loses quite a bit of baby fat in the face and drinks more than he ever has. He spends days out on the boat with his friends and nights around the kitchen table playing games with his parents and David. 

He reads some, fishes a little, and jerks off to thoughts of coming on Patrick’s face a lot.

By late July he’s feeling a little pathetic, NHL captaincy and Stanley Cup win aside, and begins hitting the gym harder than he ever has before.

While many people know him, they’re not nearly as star struck as he assumed they would be when he brought the cup home. The people he shares his hometown with are respectful and friendly— and for the most part tend to leave him alone outside of the lone autograph or rare picture with a kid every now and then. 

So it’s quite a bit of a surprise when he starts getting hit on. 

It happens two or three times at the grocery store, running errands for Andrèe. Then again at the local rink when he stops by to visit the kids. And on one particularly memorable occasion, in the gym locker room. 

Jonathan doesn’t think he’s gay. He knows he isn’t straight. It’s enough for him. Still—when the tall tan brunette makes eyes at him from across the room, titling his head towards the steam showers, he grows all hot and shivery to his core. 

It’s a brand new sensation. 

Since he started working out more, building up more defined muscle mass, he feels good. But he doesn’t really notice how attractive he’s gotten until a girl pulls him aside at a local dive bar one night and murmurs right in his ear, “You look like you can take control, eh?”

He nearly chokes on his beer. 

She’s a redheaded bombshell—only slightly shorter than him with bright green eyes and a sprinkle of tan freckles on her nose. 

She bites her lip as she patiently awaits his response. He tries not to look like a total idiot when he asks, “Uhh—sorry, what?”

She giggles, lightly brushing a shiny curl over her shoulder as she bites down on her pink bottom lip. 

“You have really nice arms. And you’re so tall.”

Her gaze drops down to his feet then back up slowly, sinful and calculated. “I bet you could mess me up.”

He detects a blush creeping in but he fights it. Now isn’t the time for modesty. He hasn’t hooked up with anyone since Patrick. 

He leans down, getting closer to her, gripping her small waist as he asks, “Do you want me to?”

She pulls back, looking up at him and swiping her tongue over her bottom lip. 

It’s on.

Minutes later they’re fucking in the backseat of her SUV, her panties and dress pushed aside so she can ride on top of him. 

She’s wet, and tight. Her body feels insanely good. But when she leans in, seeking kisses, Jonny turns his head away—trying to concentrate on making them both come. 

Suddenly a flash of Patrick’s mouth crosses his mind, wet and swollen and slick in Jonny’s massive shower. Jonny never got to come on his lips. And fuck—now he’s thinking about it, and this girl—he doesn’t even know her name—she’s crying out because he’s speeding up, and he brings a thumb down to her clit, rubs her off while biting her neck and trying to remember what Patrick sounded like when he came. 

When he coats the condom in his own release, Patrick’s name flashes like the Las Vegas sign in his head. The wave of guilt that rolls over him is immediate and overwhelming.

It must show on his face how distraught and anxious he is—not at all expected after an insanely satisfactory orgasm.

She asks him twice if he’s okay as he helps her readjust herself.

“Yes, course.” He lies.

He practically runs home after, tail between his legs. He’s sick with embarrassment and misses Patrick so severely his heart clenches in his chest. 

Horrified, he looks up ways to calm himself down. 

By the end of the week, he’s enrolled in Winnipeg’s most exclusive yoga and mediation program. He doesn’t know if it’ll work, if it’ll help his inner turmoil of confused thoughts and distressed emotions. 

But he hopes it will. 

It has to.

(+)

Patrick never reaches out. 

When Jonny returns to Chicago, breathing and relaxation techniques in tow, he holds his head high and goes about his way. 

The organization has branded them “1988” and Jonny can’t even bring himself to be angry over it. He’s so gone. 

He likes being tied to Pat in a somewhat permanent way. 

He has no idea how Patrick feels about it but that’s business as usual. 

They carry on.

Patrick fucks a lot of girls. He’ll hear Sharpy and Duncs hammer him about it in the locker room. And Jonny will see it firsthand sometimes, him picking up—he doesn’t ever stay to see it pan out. He doesn’t ever stay late, anyway. Usually choosing to leave once he’s fulfilled his leadership duties of being a shoulder to drunkenly lean on and buying a round or two every now and then. 

Patrick will never bring them back to their shared space, so at least some things are still sacred. 

Jonny should probably be pulling his own sexual weight but he just can’t bring himself to care. Or try. After the disastrous Winnipeg debacle he keeps his distance, spending a lot of time keeping in touch with his family or strategizing with Q when he’s not perfecting his body, yoga routine, or diet. 

He keeps busy but has to actively fight not to appear miserable. 

Throughout the season, he does his best to pretend he never saw another side of Patrick Kane. 

And Patrick does the same. 

They still do everything together: interviews, promos, commercials. 

Most meals, practices, naps, and even sleep schedules are still shared. Jonny never put in a roommate change request because no matter what— hockey comes first. He’s the team captain. Patrick is their star winger. They’re the united front of a resurgent franchise. 

If the team suspected the two of them were off. Well.

Jonny shudders when he thinks about it.

The worst part is that it isn’t hard to be around Patrick. He assumed hooking up with his best friend would have deleterious effects but nothing changes. They’re still Jonny and Pat. They still have hockey. Jonny still adores him. Pat is still his person. 

That hasn’t changed. 

Even now, as they mess around in their hotel room coming off a 4-1 win against the Red Wings, Jonny laughs loud and impassioned. His shoulders aren’t strained, his limbs are remarkably loose. He watches as Pat shuffles around the room, happy and carefree. 

“That final goal was a beauty, Kaner. You toyed with ‘em, eh?”

Patrick tosses him a water bottle, grinning like a goof. “Thanks to you.”

Jonny waves him off, opening and chugging the water. He’s suddenly parched—the long day settling into his skin abruptly. It’s the middle of a painfully viscous winter and that always takes it out of him. Makes his mouth dry, his bones ache. He sits down on his bed, undressing haphazardly before closing his eyes, just for a second— laying back and letting his body rest easy. 

Across the room Patrick’s digging through his suitcase, Jonny hears the drag of zippers opening and closing as he slowly dozes off. 

He must have been more tired than he realized because when he wakes next the lights are all off. Patrick’s still up on the other bed though. The slow glow of his iPad reflecting white blue off his face. 

Jonny clears his throat, quiet and low. He checks the clock. It’s still relatively early, before midnight. He’s so sleepy. He looks back at Patrick, eyelids heavy. 

“Hey,” Patrick whispers, looking up. 

Jonny isn’t his usual self, isn’t putting on his protective mask of humor or indifference. He stares at Patrick, open and soft. 

Patrick stares back. 

“Jon,” he murmurs, setting his iPad aside and sliding his covers down hesitantly. 

“Hey.”

Jonny sits up on his elbows, suddenly slightly more awake, unable to help himself. 

“Come here,” he finds himself saying, voice steady and calm.

Patrick kicks his blankets back. He’s only in a thin shirt and black briefs. He bites his lip, wets it in what looks like a deliberate way but is probably unconscious. 

Jonny’s cock twitches in his boxers, beginning to throb in time with his heartbeat. He isn’t wearing a shirt. 

He pushes his own covers away but not completely, allowing Patrick to crawl underneath them before covering their bodies again. 

Growing up, the more serious Jonny got about hockey, the less likely he was to see other kids his own age outside of the rink. But he had a neighbor throughout most of his childhood in Winnipeg—Annalise—and she knew a lot about astrology. 

“Jonny, you’re a Taurus. And Taurus need lots of naps, good food, and physical touch.”

Jonny would snort and call her crazy.

She’d frown at him and shake her head. “I’m not crazy. I’m a Virgo. And we are always right.”

Patrick cuddles right in between his legs, skin heated and perfect smooth against Jonny’s. He can’t help but laugh quietly at the memory of Annalise. There’s been something off inside of him for awhile now. He knows a lot of it has to do with Patrick. But a lot of it is touch starvation, too. He’s been calmer out on the ice—still handsy, still possessive. But held back. 

Because of this boy—

“What are you laughing at?” Patrick asks, nuzzling into Jonny’s chest. 

“Don’t make fun of me.”

Patrick shakes his head. “No promises.”

Jonny brings a hand up to run through Patrick’s curls. They’re always softest at night, right before bed. They’re wild, too. Jonny loves it. They remind Jonny of an even younger Patrick— one with yellow flip flops and a mean glare; desperate to prove his size had nothing to do with his strength. 

Jonny sighs. It says a lot about their dynamic that they can come together like this, tired and aroused, and still not talk about the last 6 months and the distance it’s placed between them. 

Jonny won’t bring any of it up though. Hockey comes first. Hockey always comes first. 

He repeats that every night before he goes to sleep so he’ll never forget. 

“What’s your sign?”

Patrick nips at him, smacking his thigh lightly as he scoffs. “Jon. Don’t tell me you believe in that stuff.”

“I don’t. But. Humor me.” Jonny brings a hand up, ruffles his hair. It feels painfully innocent, despite both of them being chubbed up. 

“Umm...Scorpio? I think. What’re you?”

“Taurus,” Jonny replies, twirling a curl, easy and affectionate.

He elaborates, “I had this neighbor who was into it, eh? When I was young. Said my sign is the reason why I need to touch people all the time.”

Patrick giggles and inches even closer, just a bit, trying to look like he didn’t. But. 

“You? Touchy?” He laughs. Jon feels the puff of it against his chest. He glances up at Jon, thoughtful. Then looks back down, bringing a hand to rest on his pec. “Makes sense. My sisters used to be into that...Uh. My sign...”

Jonny waits, wanting to laugh with how dumb this conversation is. But they’re so close. Jonny will take what he can get. 

Patrick licks his bottom lip. Jonny’s eyes zero in. 

“Apparently my sign craves sex.”

He shuffles atop Jonny, lining up his warm cock all solid against his.

Jonny’s hand twitches at his side. He only has so much restraint. “Really?”

Patrick nods, leaning forward and tentatively pressing their mouths together. There’s no space between them but he doesn’t even purse his lips, just holds them there and waits. 

Waits for Jonny. 

Jonny briefly vehemently wonders if Patrick always wait for him to make the first move. To push. To take the leap. 

Wonders if where he’ll lead, Patrick will follow. 

He angles his lips, closing that barest hint of breath. From the moment they touch, it’s like everything that’s felt so off and jagged about the latest season snaps back into focus. 

Patrick kisses Jonny back and Jonny can’t help the pleasure-pained whimper. They should have been kissing all along. When something feels this good it shouldn’t have to cost something. 

But Patrick breaks it, just as quickly as it began. He pulls back, still sticking close, hips cozy snug up against Jonny’s.

His pupils are huge, pleasure dilated, but Jon can still make out the ice blue. He’s always loved Patrick’s eyes—maybe even more than his lips. Or his curls. 

They can be cold, calculated. Or hollow, untelling. Patrick only lets his eyes show the barest hint of emotion when he truly cares enough to leave them unguarded. 

Jonny doesn’t see them like that often. Not like himself. He’s an open book. 

“Patrick”, he breathes, clasping his hands together on his lower back.

Patrick’s eyes are brilliant, intense. His gave unwavering. But Jonny can see the curtain closing. He knows what’s coming. He keeps his mouth closed. 

“We can’t, Jon. Okay?”

Jonny closes his eyes, letting his fingers unravel. 

He doesn’t open them as he replies, “Okay, Pat.”

He wants to scream. He wants to hit something. Instead he lets go of Patrick and turns away as he leaves the bed. He should confront him, demand an explanation.

But he doesn’t want to fight. He just wants Patrick close. 

He keeps his back turned as he listens to Patrick climb back onto his own bed. “Are you ever going to tell me?”

He hates how uncertain he sounds. 

The reply is short when it comes. “What, Jon?”

Deep breath in, slow and smooth out. In, out. Repeat. Be mindful of your surroundings. 

“I just want to know what’s on your mind.”

Patrick doesn’t say anything. 

Jonny hears the answer anyway. 

(+)

Months pass. Jonny starts dating, even though it feels wrong.

When his car accident happens, it feels a lot like rock bottom. He isolates himself. Dealing with his problems by not dealing with them at all. 

(+)

Everything hurts. He lays in his bed in his dark, quiet apartment and stares at the ceiling. 

He’s been so stupid, incredibly reckless. 

Lindsey’s been in and out, feeding him, hydrating him, and even blowing him on one particularly adventurous afternoon.

He slides his eyes shut. 

It’s been awhile since he felt so miserable. 

He’s been losing himself these past two seasons. Ever since the cup win he can’t get back to good. And now he may be out for good—unable to participate the rest of the season. 

It’s his own fault. He knows his body better than this. He should’ve handled it. 

He hears someone coming in, steps sounding heavier than Lindsey’s. The only other people who have a key to his place are his family, Duncs, and—

“Kaner?” 

He sits up way too fast, head spinning violently. 

“Oh fuck,” he murmurs, hand coming to his forehead.

“Jonny?” Patrick walks in, dressed down in a light blue hoodie, gray sweats, and a white Blackhawks cap flipped around. 

He looks so fucking good. Jonny wants him to crawl into bed. 

“What’re you doing here? You’ve got a game tonight.”

Kaner comes over to him, holding out a flash drive. “It’s from practice— thought you might be in the mood to look back on the past week plays.”

Jonny smiles at him, trying to keep the fond out of it. “I can’t watch TV.”

Patrick smiles back. “I know. For when you’re better.”

He sits down in the space next to Jonny’s hip, body heat creeping into the silky cool sheets. Jonny takes the drive from him and sets it on the end table, right next to a team photo of the 2010 Cup. 

He wants to point out that usually an assistant will bring these sorts of things over, but he won’t try his luck. Patrick clearly wanted to see him. It’s been awhile. 

“How are you?”

Patrick ignores it, choosing instead to ask, “You doing alright?”

Jonny fiddles with his hands, wanting so badly to look Patrick in the face but he’s sitting with his back to Jon still, facing the hallway. 

Jonny should lie. He doesn’t want to scare Patrick. But he’s too tired.

He can’t take it back when he says, “I’m terrified, Pat.”

Patrick looks at him immediately, eyes filled with fear. It must be unnerving for him to see Jonny like this, posted up under a million blankets in the middle of the day, blinds and blackout curtains drawn. 

For as long as they’ve known each other Jonny’s been the one in control, the one who willingly takes on responsibility instead of shying away from it. Patrick never gives up, but Jonathan doesn’t either. 

Seeing him like this—weak and lost—its all over Patrick’s face. He’s reeling. And even wrapped all up in his pain and anxiety, Jonny only wants to comfort him. 

He reaches out his hand, palm up, nervous that Patrick won’t take it. 

Patrick takes it, but turns away again. 

He doesn’t say anything for a moment and Jonny doesn’t have anything else to offer—his confession hangs heavy in the air between them. 

Then Patrick takes a deep breath. And starts talking. Voice velvetly smooth and impossibly deep. 

“The day after the cab incident was one of the worst days of my life.” He still has his back turned, so he doesn’t see Jonny sit up straighter. “No one would talk to me—not my cousin, not my dad. My sisters hadn’t heard what happened, but I knew they were going to. I knew some friend would eventually spill.”

Jonny’s heart pounds, different from the beat inside his head.

“I remember feeling so weak. Still drunk. Dehydrated as all hell. And not really...”

He lets go out Jonny’s hand, gesturing somewhat wildly. “Not really getting the gravity of what I’d done.”

He laughs, bitter. “And of course I didn’t remember it. Not a thing.”

Jonny feels multiple emotions at once: guilt, for what he said to Pat that night in the hotel room. Desperation, for Pat’s hand again. Anger, towards alcohol in general. 

He never understood the appeal. 

“But then you called me. That night.”

He looks back at Jonny and the dim light from the hallway hits his iris just so—highlighting the blue. Jonny holds his breath, body tense. 

“I started crying. Like...Uncontrollably. Could barely speak. You remember?”

His mouth is dry but his hands are damp—he curls them into fists and stares at the ceiling. “I do.”

Patrick thought it was the end. His career gone before it even really arrived. Jonny told him that wasn’t true, told him—

“You said, “Be strong.” And to let it humble me. Told me that sorry wasn’t enough, but it was going to be okay. Because you knew I was capable of giving more.”

Jonny closes his eyes at the bizarre prick of tears. When he says Patrick’s name, it comes out roughly.

Patrick takes his hand again, squeezing tightly this time. “Be strong Jon. This...isn’t it. You still have so much to offer. You still have time.”

Jonny sits up, covering Patrick’s back with his warm, bare chest and hugging him close. It’s the first moment he’s felt any sense of peace in days, shoulders sagging while his eyes droop.

Patrick finally turns his face towards his, nosing at his temple and inhaling deeply. Jonny wraps an arm around his broad chest, bringing his twitching fingers to a pec and pressing down. 

Patrick doesn’t kiss him, wrapping his hand around Jonny’s wrist and slowly pulling it off. “You need to rest.”

Jonny doesn’t want him to go, can’t bear the thought. He just got here, Jonny’s going stir crazy already and what if he can’t play—

Patrick withdraws and stands to remove first his shirt then his sweats. 

Jonny’s body deflates, heart settling in his chest as he gets comfortable against the pillows. He probably won’t be able to fall asleep for awhile. All he’s been doing is sleeping. But having Patrick here changes everything. 

His mood, his body language, his thoughts. 

When Patrick settles against him, he stops thinking. There’s no noise.

He eventually falls asleep to the even sound of his breathing. 

(+)

He’s furious with Patrick. He’s also way too drunk. 

He hasn’t had much to drink in what feels like months but it’s his day and he’s going to have as much as he wants dammit.

“Let’s fucking go,” he shouts, spilling beer all over his hand. He doesn’t remember the name of the bar they’re at but it doesn’t fucking matter. 

Nothing matters. 

The season’s done and it’s only April—crashing and burning in a pit of flames Jon can’t help but think he lit.

“This isn’t on you,” Q told him, “your first priority is your health. We’ll get it next year.”

Jonny slams his drink down on the table, tilting in his seat. 

“You okay?” David asks, concern evident on his face. 

“The fuckin’ Coyotes—what a fucking joke.” His O’s drag out, slightly slurred. He doesn’t know how much he’s had. Maybe he’s had too much. 

David pats his knee, waving a waitress over for the bill. 

“Let’s get you home, eh?”

Jonathan sits back against the booth, rolling his head back and forth. His knocked around brain. “Hurts.”

David moves in front of him, lightening quick. He brings his phone up, flashlight already on. “Your head?”

Jonny pushes him away, blinking rapidly. “Get away from me.”

David rolls his eyes, pulling out his wallet.

“No—no, you’re not paying, get my wallet.”

David looks back at him, and even though he’s smashed Jonny’s pretty sure that’s pity written all over his brother’s face. “It’s your birthday. Let me get this.”

Jonny drops his head down onto the table—gently, because there’s still some phantom ache inside of it. 

He can feel his phone vibrating in his pocket again. Maybe the 3rd or 4th time tonight. He doesn’t pull it out.

David notices the light through the fabric of his jeans though, poking at it. “You going to tell me what’s going on?”

“No, and don’t ask again,” Jonny grumpily replies, stubborn as ever. 

He doesn’t remember much after that. There’s a dark ally he stumbles along, a jagged curbside he trips over. 

He feels a little nauseous in the back of the cab they get into but it goes away once he closes his eyes. 

David must deposit him in the guest bedroom in the house he bought his parents the summer before because that’s where he is when he wakes up—not in his apartment on the Red River. 

It’s not morning. And he’s still not sober. But he’s coherent enough to recognize his surroundings and what it was that brought him to this hellish consciousness. 

His phone blares and drones on. He answers it without thinking, just needing it to stop.

“Jonny? You there?”

Jonny turns his head into his pillow, rubs it slowly back and forth in an effort to will away the miserable pangs. He licks his dry lips, dehydrated. 

It’s Patrick on the other end of the line. 

Jonny has nothing to say to him. 

“I’m so glad you answered,” Patrick drawls, harsh and sarcastic, “how fucking decent of you, Jon.”

He’s definitely slurring, lisp more prominent than ever. 

Jonny can’t open his mouth, tongue too big and stupid to move. He breathes out, loud. 

“Fuck. M’sorry...I just—I jus’ wanted to wish you a happy birthday, Jonny. That’s all—“

He breaks off, voice all breathy and high like he’s getting worked up. 

Jonny closes his eyes, biting down on the inside of his cheek to keep from saying something stupid. Something he can’t take back. 

Patrick’s not going to guilt him into speaking. He’s the reason they’re even in this present situation. Why they aren’t actually together on his birthday. 

When Patrick fell asleep with Jon, the day he came to check up on him—he was still there when Jonny woke up. 

It was new.

Jonny was elated, covering Patrick’s body almost completely with his own—like he wanted to get inside. 

Patrick startled awake and, despite both of them casually dating other people, they made out until they were both gasping and hard in their underwear. 

They didn’t get off because Jonny’s head started to hurt. So Patrick did something even more intimate. 

He took care of Jonny. 

He threw on some sweats and one of Jonny’s Mt Baldy t-shirts. Ran and got his meds from the bathroom and administered them. Refilled his water, cooked him a simple yet satisfying meal. 

Once Jonny was sated and relaxed, Patrick rolled him onto his stomach and gave him a shoulder rub, draining all the tension from the sore points in his body. 

And then he left when Jonny fell asleep. 

The following day he was pictured in some Chicago gossip column out and about with Amanda—smiling and sunshiney like he rarely ever was in public. 

The photos made Jonny nauseous. 

It had been easy—letting his mind wander. Making himself believe Patrick was out to deliberately hurt him, make him suffer. The anguish of reliving, over and over, being taken care of just to be abandoned at the end of the day—he couldn’t bear it. 

Something cracked apart inside himself. 

Now his head and his heart match. 

He laughs, ugly and awkward, at the thought. 

Patrick makes a strange, self-conscious noise. “Jon?” He questions. “What’s so funny?”

He has the audacity to sound like he’s walking on eggshells—timid and small. Jonny rubs at his eyes, wanting to break into hysterics. It’s rich, Patrick calling him over and over again. Demanding his attention.

Maybe it would mean something if he didn’t only have the guts to reach out when he was drinking. 

“My fucking life,” Jonny replies, hanging up. 

He turns off his phone, effectively silencing the sound of Pat’s voice both in reality and in his head. 

(+)

“Pick up your fucking phone,” Jonny mutters under his breath, pacing around his parent’s living room anxiously.

He shudders when he thinks of the photos. What people are saying. What the Hawks are thinking. How this could affect Patrick’s contract. 

It goes to voicemail again. This is the 5th time Jonny’s tried in the past hour. He’s about to book a flight to Madison or Chicago or fuck—even Buffalo—when his mother walks into the room, holding a watering can and a miniature orchid. 

“Jonathan, put your phone down s’il vous plaît.”

He tosses it down on the couch, happy to be told what to do for once. He’s used to fixing messes, being in charge. He loves being responsible for others. He thrives on being needed. 

But he has no idea what to do here. What to do about Patrick. 

Andrèe sets the orchid down on the windowsill, right next to her beloved bonsai tree. She doesn’t look at him as she starts to water. 

“You cannot worry about him all the time. You have to put yourself first.”

Jonny drops his head down, letting it rest in the palms of his hands. “I just need to know he’s alright. I haven’t heard from him and it’s already past noon.”

His eyes sting but for once he doesn’t fight the onslaught. He’s so sick over Patrick—if he’s hurt, if he’s safe. And fuck his friends and so called inner circle for allowing something like this to happen. For jeopardizing him like this. 

He hears his mother pat over, just before her fingers lightly grasp his hand and her nails begin to scritch through his summer shortened hair. 

“Mon amour, he’s not a child. He made choices—just like any other adult.”

Jonny presses his head into her stomach, allowing a small hiccup to escape his throat. “I know...but no one was looking out for him.”

I should have been there, he thinks. Maybe if I had picked up his calls—

Andrèe sighs, soft and light. “You have to let him make his own mistakes, right? So he can get to where he needs to be.”

Jonny can’t help himself when he mutters, “He should be with me.”

Andrèe doesn’t even argue. “Oui...He should be. But he isn’t. And something tells me that’s on him, not you.”

She steps back to bend down, angling her face near his until he’s forced to look at her with tired, teary eyes. 

She brings a soft hand to his face, smiling and leaning forward to press a gentle kiss to his cheek. “Au petit bonheur la chance...he will be okay. Allow him space to lick his wounds. He must be embarrassed. Social media used as a tool to weaponize shame...it’s heavy, darling. Give him some time. He’ll come back for you.”

Jonny makes a noise of some sort, unsure of the emotion welling up inside him. It’s becoming more apparent just how far he’d go to make sure Patrick’s okay. His own mother, who has always had his back and who always knows what to say—can’t even snap him from this fog.

He hears the backdoor shut, his father calling out his name a moment later. 

“Go to the lake with your father,” Andrèe encourages, “take the day to get some fresh air.”

He nods, getting up, hugging her as he goes. He’s nearly out of the room when she speaks again.

“And Jonathan?”

He turns around, eyesbrows raised and head tilted to the side at her stern tone. 

“Leave your phone here.”

He smiles. It’s small but still counts—it’s the first time he has in ages. 

Later, as he watches the sun reflect light off the lake, he realizes that his mother didn’t say Patrick would come back to him. But for him. Like Jonathan had him before—had him already. 

“It’s going to be okay pal,” Bryan says, leaning over and squeezing his shoulder. 

Jonathan doesn’t believe him but can’t voice it. Not now. 

His father is always right, so Jonathan should believe him. But all he can think about is Patrick—blacked out and ditched in some trashy college bar. 

His heart sinks deep down, heavy under disappointment. 

When they arrive home later and his phone is still blank from notifications, he sends the first text between he and Patrick since his birthday. 

“Stay strong peeks. I’ll be waiting when you’re ready.”

(+)

Hawks PR runs damage control throughout the entire summer and Stan believes the best course of action to take with regards to Patrick’s little drinking problem is to make it official with Amanda. 

“We’re going for a more mature perspective,” he informs the heads of the team. 

Jonny hates it. 

But still he waits. 

Then the lockout happens.

Patrick leaves for Beil without so much as a “Thanks for checking in. I’m fine.” text. He brings his mom with him, and Jonny has to rely on Tyler fucking Seguin to keep tabs in some sort of cohort fashion.

“Yeah, I’ll watch your boy,” Seggy smirks, sucking on a lollipop. 

Jonny rolls his eyes at the computer screen, both annoyed and very sexually frustrated. 

“He’s not my boy,” he replies, barely refraining from whipping out the air quotes. 

Tyler licks his red bottom lip, biting down on it. “Why can’t I tell him you’re reaching out then?” He asks, thoughtful. 

Jonny rolls his eyes, exasperated. “Can’t I just be a captain looking out for his troubled teammate?”

“Sure,” Tyler responds, easy. 

Jonny lets out a premature sigh of relief. 

“Or,” Tyler continues, “you could be a teammate with a crush.”

“P. Kane is fucking cute,” he adds with a sleazy wink. 

“Don’t get any ideas,” Jonny snaps, sounding way too affected.

Tyler flicks his tongue out, eyebrows raised. “Just captainly duties, eh?”

“Goodnight Seggy,” he says with a huff, slamming his laptop shut. 

He trudges around his apartment for awhile. Wanting so badly to speak to Patrick he curls his hands into fists at his sides.

It’s not like he’s worried Patrick will do anything stupid across the pond. Donna will be there to keep watch and it settles Jonny- just a bit. 

But he hates that Patrick will be playing hockey without him—somewhere else. 

It feels wrong. 

Everything is wrong. But he has to stay here. Make sure it all gets fixed. 

He picks up his phone, twirls it back and forth in his palm. 

Patrick’ll be on the plane now. Probably asleep. 

Against his better judgment, Jonny calls him anyway, knowing it’ll go straight to voicemail. 

When the message dings, Jonny takes a deep breath, adrenaline coursing throughout his body, heart palpating uncontrollably. 

“Pat. It’s Jon.”

He reverts back to his calming methods learned two summers previous. He narrows in his senses. 

Pick three things you can see: a bullet blender, a mint eucalyptus candle, and a photo of him and David at Banff in the 90’s. 

Pick two things you can touch: a soft, lavender throw from the Sharps. A fire engine red Blackhawks stress ball. 

Pick one thing you can hear: his voice—low and steady—as he speaks into the phone. 

“Light it up over there. Be safe. Be smart. I’ll let you know when it’s time to come home.”

Come home. Come home. Come back—

He wants to scream.

“And bud? I miss you. Alright? Call me. Have a safe trip.”

He hangs up, wanting to feel better because he put himself out there, made a move.

Instead he’s lost, mood not even remotely improved. 

Jonny has been a leader his entire life. People trust him because he’s respectful, responsible, and always trusts his intuition. His sense of direction has never led him astray. 

His stomach churns as he stares down at his phone. Dread fills his thoughts and he recognizes what’s happening for what it is.

His instincts are surging in a dark way—telling him to flee, abort the mission. 

But he wants to fight. 

For Pat, he wants to. 

But Pat’s the one who left while Jon’s still here.

He begins his calming session again.

Three, two, one.

(+)

Months pass by with radio silence from Patrick. He’s getting his act together. Staying clean. Remaining calm. 

Donna helps. According to Seggy.

He’ll email Jonny updates in the middle of the night in Chicago while it’s just the start of the day in Biel. Or send cryptic, one word text messages that’ll read “Quiet” or “Chill” or “Distant”. They piss Jonny off, but he thinks that’s the point. 

For being known as a certified fuck boy, Tyler Seguin is actually quite observant and attempts to get Jonny to talk to Patrick directly more than once. 

“You have a reputation, but I think you’re faking it.” Jonny says one night over Skype. 

Tyler grins, bright and delighted. “You’ve got me all figured out?”

“I think so. You’re way nicer than you want people to think.”

Tyler licks his lips. “I’m so nice, Jonny. You should see how nice I can be.”

Jonny’s cock twitches in his gym shorts, and he huffs out an annoyed laugh. “God, you are such a tease.”

Tyler smirks with a shrug. “Can you blame me?”

Jonny shakes his head. “Not when you look like that.”

His face burns as he says it, not used to talking so honestly to another man this way. Nothing about it feels wrong, except—

“Oh my god Toews, would you stop thinking so hard? You look constipated.”

Jonny rolls his eyes. “Sorry. It’s just. This is...new. For me.”

Tyler tilts his head. 

Jonny tries to keep the annoyance out of his voice. “You’re flirting with me, right?”

Tyler gives him an unimpressed look. “I flirt with everyone.”

Jonny laughs, deep and loud. “Yes, I know this.”

Tyler laughs too. “You and PKane don’t flirt?”

Images flash through Jon’s mind without his permission. On his knees for Pat, his tongue in Pat’s mouth, Pat’s thighs spread over his own, Jonny’s teeth in Pat’s neck. 

“Not really,” he settles on, flushed and looking away briefly. 

Tyler doesn’t respond for a minute. Jonny’s afraid to continue the conversation, he’s already revealed too much. 

“Hey? He talks about you all the time, Jonny. Whatever’s going on...”

Jonny bites his lip, a bead of sweat trailing down his temple. 

“Maybe you guys need to get it out, yeah?”

Jonny smiles. “Yeah, Tyler. When he comes home.”

Tyler winks. “Until then.”

Jonny huffs a breath. He doesn’t mean to sound like a silly school girl. But. “He talks about me?”

Tyler makes a pigtail pulling motion, giggling. “You’re so predictable.”

“Tell me please,” Jonny whines, “what does he say?”

Tyler proceeds to make fun of him, but by the time Jonny begins winding down the call, he has a soft look on his face. 

“You’re really into him, huh?”

Jonny’s natural response is to deny it. But he’s so tired of not telling the truth. 

“Yeah,” he replies, and leaves it at that. 

They share a smile. 

“S’cute,” Tyler says, fluttering his lashes, “I’ll give him a hug from you.”

Jonny thinks about Tyler touching Pat, which somehow leads to Tyler’s skin against Pat’s skin, their abs rubbing on one another—

“I have to go,” he grits out, cheeks blooming. He needs to get off immediately. When did he become such a perv. 

Tyler rolls his eyes. “Whatever. Bye weirdo.”

(+)

He’s asleep when the knock comes, followed by the sound of someone entering the apartment. 

Lindsey stirs next to him, shifting away with a quiet sigh. 

His body aches in the best way. Linds let him get it in hard the night before and he has the bite marks, nail scratches, and fingertip-shape bruises to prove it. 

They’re not in love, they’re just having fun. Jonny needs physical touch and Linds likes the attention. The sex is hot and fun and free from angst and confusion.

It works for them. 

It’s not forever.

Maybe if Jonny repeats it enough, he’ll start to believe it. 

“Jon?”

Fuck, is that Patrick? 

“Hey,” he calls back, scrambling up. 

Linds doesn’t even react. She’s a heavy sleeper. Pretty, too. Of course. She’s gorgeous no matter the time of day. Jonny wishes he cared more. He spares a quick glance over his shoulder at her, gently tugging the comforter up over her bare back.

He looks around the dark room for his briefs, hastily throwing them on before heading down to the kitchen. 

Patrick’s in all black, thick curls shoved under a baseball cap. He looks soft and cozy in his sweats. Jonny wants to bundle him up in his arms.

He frowns, disgusted with himself.

“Hey,” he breathes, unable to keep the surprise out of his tone. 

Patrick glances at his chest, gaze unwavering. “Hey.”

He rubs at the back of his neck and it reads weak. Jonny feels a little better with how hard his heart pangs. Seems he’s not the only one affected. 

“Why’re you here?”

He must make a picture—covered in love marks and reeking of sex. 

He doesn’t bother apologizing or explaining his current state of undress. Patrick came to him. After months of shutting him out. For a second, Jonny contemplates if this is an illusion. 

Patrick rubs his hands together, a nervous habit Jonny picked up on about 2 months into their rookie season. He stares at the ground as he speaks.

“Is uh—are you—do you have company?”

Patrick’s never unsure of himself like this. He’s flustered, flighty. Looking like he’s about to bolt. 

Jonny steps towards him. “I’m not alone,” he says, gentle and soft. 

Patrick nods, tongue flicking across his bottom lip. “I can go then.”

Jonny steps to him, into his space. He wants to shout, “You just got here” but he doesn’t. 

He doesn’t say anything.

Instead he wraps his arms around Patrick’s broad shoulders, moving their bodies together. Jonny’s always loved how Patrick’s temple comes right up to his lips- it makes him seem so much smaller than he actually is. 

He presses his lips there now, not in a kiss—but in a point of connection. He wishes he knew what Pat was thinking. 

“It’s good to see you. Don’t go,” Jonny murmurs, words muffled against Patrick’s silky, thin skin. 

Patrick allows the touch but he’s tense. “You too. Fuck— I just. I didn’t think anyone would be here.”

And the way he says it—with a certain audacity—it strikes a nerve with Jonny. He pulls away, arms dropping. 

“Why? Because I’m all fucked up over you?”

Patrick scoffs, face turning into a sneer as he eyes the hickies lining Jonny’s skin. “Clearly.”

Jonny points to the door, blood beginning to boil. It’s too early for this. “Fine. If that’s how you’re gonna be, leave. Like you always fucking do.”

A crestfallen look crosses Patrick’s face. He opens his mouth but Jonny steamrolls. 

He continues, unable to stop. “I waited for you—for months—I was worried sick over Madison. You never reached out. Just...vanished. Then you—“

He lowers his voice, remembering they’re not alone. He looks to his bedroom. When he turns back around, Patrick’s in his space again. Close enough to touch. 

They don’t. 

Patrick licks his lips, blue eyes wide and so sad. “Keep going,” he whispers, tongue curling in the corner of his mouth.

Jonny shakes his head, disbelief in his features. “I have nothing left to say to you. You deserting me without so much as a text told me all I needed to know.”

He’s breathing too harsh, body worked up. Sweat gathers in the space behind his knees, the line of his shoulders becomes strained. All he wanted to do was relax, have one morning where he didn’t immediately think about Patrick upon waking. 

Patrick reaches a hand up, hesitant between their bodies. After a moment, he lets it fall. 

He looks at Jonny, looks at his mouth. Darts his eyes away. 

“Amanda and I aren’t for real. We just... She knows about you. Has from the jump.”

Jonny frowns deeply, cringes at how loud he swallows. He’s confused by the conversation direction. “What?”

Patrick looks up at him, smiles in a devastating way. It makes Jonny sad.

“I was so fucked up in Madison. Over you,” Patrick reveals, quiet and serious. 

He continues, “I left the States...because I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

He backs slowly away from Jonny. “I messed up so many times. And I came to say sorry. Before the season starts...”

He takes a deep breath, looking around the kitchen and shuffling on his feet. “I know it might not mean anything...but you’re...Jonny, you’re—“

Jonny steps forward, heart lodged in his throat. “I’m—?”

A door shuts down the hallway. Patrick glances in the direction immediately. He shakes his head, sniffing.

“Nothing. Forget it. I’m leaving. I’ll...see you at practice.”

Jonny tries to stop him, grabs his wrist, flicks his foot out. Patrick looks so upset though, embarrassed. 

He shakes Jonny off, not even sparing a glance back as he rushes out the door. 

Jonny looks down at his hand, fingers outstretched. Reaching for someone who isn’t there. 

(+)

They’ve done it again. 

Jonny honestly can’t believe it as he hoists the Cup for a second time—practically weighing nothing. 

His eyes search for Patrick’s, seeking him out immediately. 

Patrick’s nailed the Conn Symthe trophy—Jonny knows it. He pulled out all the stops—played his total heart out and added soul to the rest. 

Jonny’s been asked a hundred times who his favorite players are—he’ll say a couple greats, throw Crosby in there because it’s a generic response—when in reality there’s no one but Pat for him at the top. He’s the most beautiful skater Jonny has ever seen. 

Jonny wants to kiss him so badly—heart in his throat. 

They skate to one another, Jonny handing the cup over with a smile so big it’s almost painful. 

Patrick lifts it up and the crowd completely falls apart—howling and cheering so loud it drowns out every thought in Jonny’s head.

He doesn’t see who Patrick passes the cup off to, just clings to him as soon as his arms are empty, opening his mouth—

“I love you Jonny! Way to step up big!”

They’ve somehow already ditched most of the team, off on their own to the side with several crew and TV members zooming in. 

Jonny furrows his brows, looking back up into the crowd. He’s painfully close to crying, body aching and heart fluttering wildly—Patrick’s words replacing the ringing roar of the fans in his head. 

“What?” He asks, chest filling like a hot air balloon. 

But Patrick’s already being pulled in one direction and Jonny in the other—complete chaos and utter mayhem ensuing. 

The next time he sees Patrick he’s right next to him, the gleaming Conn Symthe trophy lodged secure between them. 

There are flashes everywhere, leaving Jonny disoriented. 

Sharpy yanks Patrick into a toast, pouring champagne directly into his mouth. 

Jonny’s already too drunk to look away—enraptured and captivated beyond any sort of thought.

Jonny wants him back by his side immediately, feels bereft without him already. But he’s the Captain, and he has responsibilities.

He gets up on a bench, towering over the room, tipsy and happy. 

“We fought for this,” he shouts, drenched in sweat and smelling of Dom Pérignon.

“He fought for this!” Sharpy shouts, wrapping his arms around Patrick tightly and kissing him on his temple with an obnoxious smack. 

Jonny laughs, loud and obnoxious to hide how badly he shakes with wanting to do the same. But it would be different—coming from him. So he shoves the urge down, buries it alongside his feelings like he’s done so many times before. 

Jonny continues his speech, thanking Q and the coaching the staff, the trainers, the fans. He then singles out every player, making sure they get their time to shine. He saves Patrick for last. 

When he gets to him, he has the weirdest choking sensation grip his throat, effectively cutting him off halfway. 

He looks at Patrick, aware of all the media, the lights, the cameras. He can’t say what he really wants to, which is, “you make the team better, you make me better.”

So he settles on, “We couldn’t do this without you.”

There’s a strange look in his eye- a ferocious gaze held so high the light catches his lashes- and he smiles at Jonny, really big and happy and so fucking gorgeous Jonny can’t breathe. 

The rest of the night continues on much like the first cup celebration—but this time Jonny wakes up to a blonde slightly slimmer, taller, and more female. 

There’s only one missed call from Patrick when he wakes. He hates how his heart trips over the sight of his name on the screen. 

It’s from 4:17AM and there are no texts with it. 

Jonny checks the current time: 5:45AM. 

He feels like shit. A combination of beer, champagne, and no water for several hours are the biggest culprits. 

He groans as he sits up, quietly beginning his morning routine. 

By the time he’s thrown on presentable athletic gear and brushed his teeth, the sun’s barely rising over Lake Michigan and he’s made a decision about what to do next.

He kisses Linds high on her cheek, staring down at her sleeping form all fond and thankful for their time together.

He leaves a note that says “Call me later” on the table beside her. Then he moves, muscle memory kicking in so quickly he doesn’t even register how short his trip to Pat’s is until he glances at his watch and barely 20 minutes have passed. 

He uses the spare key to get in. He’s not nervous. Maybe it’s the time of day—no one else is awake so he feels he can get away with what he’s about to do. Maybe it’s the sight of Patrick knocked out cold across his comforter alone, bleary morning light dosing him in a yellowish glow. Or maybe it’s the fact that after they won the Cup for a second time—all Jonny wanted to do was share that happiness with Pat. 

There’s no substitute. There’s no one else. 

He climbs into the bed, fully clothed and exhausted. 

He falls asleep to his hand slowly stroking Patrick’s back—in a state of peaceful happiness. 

(+)

His nap is violently disrupted a handful of hours later by a pillow to the face.

The thwack takes him more by surprise rather than actually hurts him. He still shouts. 

“What the fuck?!”

He throws his arms out, flailing wildly as he tries to grab onto Patrick. He’s too small and squirmy, keeps wiggling out of Jonny’s grasp just when he thinks he has him.

He thinks of Big Fish, one of his favorite movies. And the line about how some fish don’t want to be caught. He would laugh if Patrick didn’t look so fucking furious. 

The blows keep coming, relentless and unchecked. Jonny stops fighting them, recognizing this for what it is. 

He squeezes his eyes shut, hiding behind his bicep. “I’m sorry! Okay? I’m sorry.” 

“You should’ve come home with me last night! What the fuck—why are you here—“

Patrick tosses the pillow aside, slapping and pinching at his chest. Jonny kicks a leg out, hitting him square in his thigh. 

He takes advantage of Pat’s loss of balance, grabbing at him. He uses his body mass and what little strength he has left in him to overpower Patrick, gripping him by his waist and flipping them over.

Patrick glares up at him, huffing loudly in the space between and licking at his lips. 

Jonny tentatively lowers his body over Patrick’s. He doesn’t speak for a moment, choosing instead to look. 

Patrick‘s mouth is pressed in a thin, unhappy line. He doesn’t open it. 

Jonny will wait. 

He presses his chest to Patrick’s, guiding them both in a soothing breathing technique. 

Maybe a minute passes before Jonny speaks.

He takes a deep breath. “Are you calm?”

Patrick’s closed his eyes, muscles gone loose in Jonny’s grip. He nods, turning his head into the pillow and refusing to open his eyes. 

Jonny leans down, closing his eyes as well. He presses his lips to Patrick’s ear—keeping his words to a whisper. 

He surprised his voice doesn’t shake as he says, “You told me you loved me last night.”

He’s got both of Patrick’s precious wrists enclosed in his massive hands, gentle and firm. They struggle momentarily, attempting to break free. 

“Patrick,” Jonny breathes, “stop fighting.”

Patrick swallows, taking another deep breath. “Impulse decision. So fucking stupid.”

His voice breaks, giving him away. Jonny doesn’t force him to look at him. Not yet. 

“I broke up with Linds last night,” he reveals, grave and stern, “she’s known about you forever.”

Patrick’s breath stutters in his chest, hips arching against Jonny like he wants to get closer. “You went home with her.”

Jonny laughs, right into Patrick’s ear. “Yeah, Pat. Because you didn’t ask me to go with you.”

Patrick looks at him now, eyes wide. Jonny smiles. 

“We only slept. She was with me but only for company. We were trashed...and I didn’t want to be alone. I’m not sure if you know this but...”

He smirks, leaning down to press the words into Patrick’s cheek. “The Chicago Blackhawks won the Stanley Cup last night.”

Patrick laughs, and it’s the first real one Jonny’s heard from him in so long. 

Patrick glances up at him, cute and silly and cheeks all pink. “So I guess you had to celebrate...”

Jonny shrugs. “I would’ve rather been with you.”

He leans back into a sitting Indian position, putting space between them so they can have this conversation face to face properly. 

Patrick sits up too, somehow managing to look nervous and giddy at the same time. 

Jonny goes first, unable to put off this conversation any longer. 

“So, I’m sorry I showed up unannounced this morning and got into bed with you.”

He doesn’t sound sorry, and Patrick rolls his eyes with a laugh. He nods for Jonny to continue. 

“But I’m really fucking tired of pretending I don’t want you. Or that being friends is enough. Or that I want to keep having meaningless sex.”

Jonny stares at a loose thread in the sheets. “I don’t know how you feel...we’ve never really...I haven’t handled this well.”

“You,” he clarifies a moment later. 

He looks up with a sad gaze, unsure what to expect.

Patrick’s looking at the same thread Jon was, twisting it around his index finger over and over. “We didn’t talk...not after the first time. Not really.”

“Yeah...but. You should know. I knew it the first time we slept together,” Jonny tells, voice slightly shaking. “I knew you were it, Pat. I liked you so much. And fuck—I—“

Patrick takes his hand, quick and awkward, like he almost talked himself out of it. “I knew it too.”

Jonny looks at him, actively trying to conceal the hurt. “There's no way? When I woke up, you—“

Patrick shakes his head. “Let me talk for a second?”

Jonny squeezes his hand, refusing to let go as Patrick continues to speak. 

“How you grew up? Your parents, being supportive, no matter what? I needed that. But I didn’t get it beyond hockey.”

“Whatever gear I wanted, the better the team I needed to join, whichever coach could handle my status as a...”

“Prodigy,” Jonny supplies, thoughtful. 

“Sure,” Patrick grins at him. Then he sighs. 

“Whatever I needed with regards to the sport— they’d handle it. No questions asked. But everything else? It wasn’t a priority.”

He lets go of Jonny’s hand, getting up. He begins pacing back and forth in front of the bed. Untapped. 

“I told my mom in 5th grade I might have a crush on a boy I played basketball with at school. She didn’t even acknowledge what I said. And shit—even if she reacted poorly, that probably would’ve been better than her completely dismissing it by not even acknowledging it.”

Patrick looks down at his feet as he paces, shaking his head back and forth. “I was so confused. And I just needed someone to tell me that liking another guy was alright. That there was nothing wrong with it and that I would be fine.”

The way he says “fine”, it sounds like “relief”. And having no sense of that with his immediate family—with his mother—Jonny’s heart gives an ugly lurch. 

Patrick pushes on. “After that, I realized I had this heavy part of myself to carry around. And I hated it.”

”Patrick, I’m so sorry,” Jonny says. 

Patrick sits down on the bed, back to Jonny, chewing on his lip. He shrugs. “I ignored urges for years. Made excuses in my own head. Sweat out demons at the gym. On the ice. I just...”

He laughs, hollow and empty. 

“There were so many lies. I told myself it didn’t mean anything. But then I would see two guys holding hands and get like, irrationally angry...but not because of the PDA. Or whatever. But because they were so open about that. And I was...left behind.”

He trails off, a hint of defeat in his tone. He turns around and Jonny gives him space. Not too much—but just enough. 

“Then I met you. And you messed everything up.”

Jonny laughs, quiet and comforting. They are such a shitshow. He still has no idea how they got to this point. 

“You messed some stuff up for me too, Kaner.”

Patrick shifts closer to him, close enough to press their bare knees together. He looks up at Jonny, eyes wide, licking his lips. 

“Yeah?”

“Fuck. Like you didn’t know.”

Patrick stares at him and doesn’t do anything. Doesn’t say anything. Waits him out. 

Jonny sighs, deep and long. “I was so weird about you. Possessive....jealous. Wanted your attention on only me.”

Patrick gives him an unimpressed look. “You’re like that with your people, though. Don't front.”

Jonny raises an eyebrow. “It was different with you. I hated the idea of you rooming with anyone else. But I was so scared you’d cut me out because I was so controlling. And when you didn’t—“

He rubs his hands down his thick thighs, easing up on the tension in his body. Rolls his shoulders, rotates his jaw. 

“When you didn’t ice me out, I started...well. Over time. I began developing feelings.”

He clears his throat. “For you.”

Patrick nods, face remaining neutral. 

“I mean—I know it wasn’t broadcasted. But you knew my experiences with regards to the frontier of sexual exploration...I never hid that from you.”

He waits for Patrick to intervene but he doesn’t. Just blinks and stares at him intently. 

“But there were times I would allow myself to wonder... if you were feeling...similar to me.”

Patrick’s lips curl into a half smile. “I was.”

There’s sweat beading under Jonny’s armpits and a hint behind his knees as well. He coughs, throat suddenly dry. 

“And the night of the 2010 cup? How did you...what did you feel about it?”

Jonny wishes he were more brave. He's terrified of Patrick's answer. Anxious when he looks away. But only for a second. Then he gazes up at Jonny, uncharacteristically shy. He tucks his head into his shoulder—bites his lip. Looks briefly out the window at Lake Michigan.

“You already know, Jon.”

Jonny’s heart races, tripping all over itself in a disrupted rhythm. “Kaner.”

Patrick looks at him. And it’s like they’re meeting again for the first time—scared of the future, uncertain of their contracts, finding comfort in each other under the crushing weight of a city’s impossibly elevated expectations. 

“Tell me.”

Patrick’s mouth quirks and he looks down, ridiculous bed ridden curls falling over his forehead. He sways his head from side to side, like he’s in disbelief of the situation as a whole. Then he throws his head back and laughs. His eyes shine with wet. 

“I've been into you since day 1, Jon.”

Jonny grips the bedspread. Almost refusing to believe it. “But then why—?”

Patrick pushes at him but it’s not hard or aggressive. It’s playful. But with pressure applied. Focus. Pay attention. 

“Hockey, Jonny. Don’t play dumb. We could never...you know. And we still can't do much.”

Jonny reaches for his hand—says softly, “You're right. And I get it. I do...I don’t want to come out...maybe down the road? But all I want right now is to be with you. And to play hockey. Everything else can wait.”

Patrick hums under his breath, rubs his thumb back and forth carefully over Jonny’s pulse point. 

They sit in companionable silence for a minute or two, basking in being alone together. Being sober together. Being so familiar with one another after all these years it settles so safely in Jonny. 

“I want that too,” Patrick replies eventually. “It’s funny—when I went to Biel, I was so sure I would get over you. That I’d finally be able to take advantage of the space between us.”

Now it’s Jonny’s turn to nod. He knows the feeling. He tried it too. 

Patrick sighs, clasping Jonny’s hand completely in his own, intertwining their fingers. 

“But the thing is, when I was gone—and even when you were out of sight—I still saw you, Jon. I always will.”

And Jonny, he can’t take that backing down. He moves over to Patrick, crawling into his lap with such relief his shoulders pleasantly sag.

Because he knows what Pat means. Jonny knows he can be bossy, controlling, possessive—he knows that some people can’t handle that because they don’t see him for who he really is: a caretaker, a provider, a security blanket. A stoic protector. A proud leader. A champion for anyone knocked down. 

But Patrick—he knows. He sees. 

And Jonny—he tells Pat, “You too, Kaner.”

It’s not an “I love you”—not even close. But they’ll get there. Jonny knows it. 

“I needed space to think. I needed time,” Patrick mutters into Jonny’s chest, hot puffs of air hitting him with the oddest sensation. 

“Me too, Kaner. I still do. There's a lot of ground to cover. We have a long way to go, bud.”

Patrick laughs, but it sounds small and insecure. He’s nervous. “Yeah..a few years to track back on. Couple things to work out...Think we’ll get to where we need to be?”

Years flash through Jonny’s mind. Hundreds of images—like the best sort of collage. A shared master bedroom. A house on the north shore with a big garden. A little girl running around in an “88” jersey. A little boy playing with a fluffy Bernese mountain dog in front of the fire place. 

And Patrick. 

Always Patrick. 

Patrick beside him in bed, right when they first wake up. Sleepy and grumpy and adorable. Patrick hoisting the cup for a third, maybe fourth time, eyes scanning the crowd and the team until he finds Jonny. Patrick in a tuxedo, facing Jon with nervous, shaking hands as he twists a piece of paper between his talented fingers. 

Maybe he jumps too fast. Maybe he assumes too much. But Jonny will always go after the future he wants. He’s never settled for less than what he deserves his entire life. Like hell he’ll start when it really counts. 

When it comes to Patrick. 

Jonny presses a reassuring kiss to Patrick’s forehead, keeping these thoughts to himself for now. 

“Yeah Pat, we’ll get there.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for stopping by. I feel like there’s just not enough appreciation for JT in today’s world. So I wanted to do a *somewhat* deep dive into his head and his incandescent love for a certain Patrick Kane. I really hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it :) come by my tumblr for more 1988 content: littlelocaldreamer88


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